


Yellow

by 13ways



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Anal Sex, Batman - Freeform, Batman Catwoman AU, Batman Louis Tomlinson, Bondage, Cat Harry Styles, DC comics - Freeform, Drost is very recognizable to those who watch the news and despair for the state of the world, Dubious Consent, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Gotham, I ask for your patience because it is worth it, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Not for the squeamish, OT5, Oral Sex, Political Satire, Redemption, Since this is a superhero BDSM fic there is quite a lot of violence and blood, Some depictions of violence, Some scenes of corporal punishment and abuse that may be uncomfortable, Some sex occurs under chemical potion’s effects, Superheroes, The last chapter is in stream of consciousness, YELLOW is a title that explains so much about the story, and the last few sentences of the story explains Louis’ love for Harry, but they’re integral to the plot, i hope you like it (fingers crossed), in Harry’s POV, it is complicated and difficult to read, possible dub con triggers, the Coldplay song is crucial to the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-01-16 21:58:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 84,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12351378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13ways/pseuds/13ways
Summary: The city of Gotham turns blood red with a new, mysterious criminal element, a beautiful woman named the Blind Cupid.She threatens to tear the fabric of the city apart, aided by her deadly protégé, the Cat.Can Batman stop them?Will he resist the bewitching allures of the Cat?A Batman/ Catwoman AU





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

 _Look at the stars_  
_Look how they shine for you_

 

 

Trenton Drost sits with his back to the window, the Gotham sky illuminated by brilliant fireworks. It is the Fourth of July.

Earlier in the day, the festivities had included the usual suspects: a parade of Gotham’s policemen and firefighters; a large, open-air rock concert; block parties with barbecues, face painting, and old-fashioned carnival games in which citizens could donate money to dunk Police Commissioner Gordon into a tank of cold water.

Drost sips on his fifteen-year-old single malt Scotch, and brushes back his absurdly puffy, blond combover. His mind touches on his much younger wife’s texts. It’s the third time she’s asked him when he’d be home.

She's getting older by the minute, he thinks.

Drost Corporation has just completed a hostile takeover of the rival chain of hotels, the merger resulting in the largest collection of romance-themed hotels in the world, with a net worth of six hundred million dollars.

The merger had been expensive for his corporation. Drost was forced to bribe several of America’s most powerful politicians and judges to skirt its monopoly laws. Of course, no _actual_ bribery laws were broken in the general public’s eyes. Instead, those up for election received a series of untraceable contributions, including large sums from a clan of “sheep farmers” in Yemen. Drost also had to arrange for financing through some of the shadiest banks in the world, the ones through which dirty money flowed like a rancid sewer.

Drost’s office is on the 52nd floor of his flagship hotel, The LAIRE, in downtown Gotham.

As he sits in the semi-darkness, his face lit only by a single desk lamp, he thinks he must be hallucinating when something soft tickles his nose.

 _A fly, fifty stories up?_ His hand reaches up to scratch his nose and flick the thing away.

However, it soon becomes apparent that he's not hallucinating. As he feels the tickling for the third time, Drost looks up to notice an undeniably real piece of green yarn, dangling between his eyes.

Leaning back, he raises his chin to follow the yarn up toward the ceiling, where it is attached to a small, black, quietly hovering drone.

Is he dreaming? The drone has a cartoonish, toy-like shape of a cat leaping in midair. He stares at it with curiosity, mesmerized. The drone continues hovering quietly. Drost forgets about the loud, echoing fireworks outside, as his attention now focuses above his head.

How did it get into the building, let alone his office?

“Your locks.” A low, husky voice speaks up, anticipating Drost’s question. “They’re ridiculously easy to pick, Trenton. Unexpected, really, for a CEO of your pay scale, though I'm not complaining.”

The drone flies away, waiting in midair in the corner of the room.

Although he’s surprised, Trenton Drost isn't someone who’s easily spooked. He's dealt with business sharks and crafty lawyers in his day. A low-life intruder is a mere nuisance. He glances toward the voice, coming from the direction of his Italian leather couch.

A human form is sprawled luxuriantly along the length of the couch, an elbow on the armrest, and feet tucked under, rather regally and confidently. A skin-tight, black leather suit leaves nothing to the imagination.

The elongated sinews of its muscles show through the suit, each contraction lively and sleek. A black mask covers the top of the face. A pair of pointed ears seems to perk on its head, giving the illusion of a predator — a cat, or a fox? One elbow rests on the arm of the couch. The other arm is draped across the top of the couch, holding what appears to be a leather bullwhip that it swishes slowly, back and forth, like a lazy tail. A large diamond sparkles at the end of the handle.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Drost barks, straight to the point.

“I want to save you, Trenton,” the Cat demurs. Full, pink lips curl in a cool smile.

A closer look shows that the Cat is male, his shoulders broad, chest chiseled, and waist, slim. And his tight leather leggings leave no doubts, the leather material sculpted like a glove between the confluence of his legs. Drost stares into large, limpid green eyes that seem narrowed by amusement.

“How d’you get in here?” Drost blurts out.

“Don't you worry your pretty little head about that,” the Cat smirks, swishing the bullwhip. “The question is, how are you going to get out?”

“I'm calling security,” Drost bluffs, picking up his phone. “I'll count to three. You better be gone by — ”

“Three — two — one,” the Cat intones.

As if on command, the building’s deafening fire alarm starts blaring, a torpedo of noise that slaps the silence.

“What the — _damn it!”_ Drostshouts.

He covers his ears with his hands, ducks down, and furrows his eyebrows. In contrast, the Cat, whose ears must have been protected, is still lounging on the couch, thoroughly unbothered.

The Cat purses his lips as if in pity, like someone who has swallowed the canary.

“Oh dear. Your security must be otherwise occupied. They’re helping the guests evacuate the building, I believe. Have a look outside.”

Drost doesn't need to. He can already hear the distant sirens of Gotham’s police and fire departments zooming around city blocks to reach The LAIRE, just as the first tendrils of smoke reach his nostrils.

“What in the world?” Drost feels a lick of panic growing from the base of his throat. “What's going on?”

The Cat shrugs. “Looks to me like a crazy act of vandalism is going down,” he says. “What a shame. Drost Corporation just closed an awesome merger, didn’t it? What a fucked up way to celebrate it — if that’s the right word!” He shakes his head and chuckles with delight. “Can I ask you something, though? I just can’t figure out who’d want to stay in your cringey, soft porn rooms, Trenton. Who dreams up these stupid names, anyway? The Venus Flytrap? The Kremlin Interrogation Chamber?” The Cat smirks. “Oh boy. Some suburban dad’s gonna be disappointed tonight. But I bet he’ll recover, and you will, too. I'm sure you're insured up to your eyeballs. This is just a light spanking for you, isn’t it?”

The Cat uncurls and stands up, stretching his long limbs. His boots are laced in front, the texture distracting to Drost. “You lose this round, big guy. I'll give you a second chance, though, if you cooperate.”

“Listen, _Cat-man,_ or whoever you are — ”

“ _Pussy_ ,” the Cat jokes, with a hint of anger. “Why not just say it? C’mon, say it with me. _Pussy… cat._ You’ve grabbed a few in your lifetime, haven't you? When you’re famous, you can just go for it. The ladies’ll let you do anything. Am I right?”

With two barely audible clicks, the sprinklers in the ceiling activate, pouring water down. They both look up in surprise. The Cat jumps back, shaken, and more than a little stirred.

“Fuckin’ hell!” he growls. “This makes me very unhappy, Trenton. I. Fucking. Hate. Water. I _hate_ it. You don't even understand, _fuck!_ ”

Drost knows that sprinklers are triggered only if the building’s computerized sensors detect a drop in the rooms’ oxygen and an increase in carbon dioxide, along with a rise in room temperature. Sprinklers usually come on only if there's an actual fire somewhere.

There is an _actual, real_ fire in his hotel.

“How? Why?” Drost stutters in disbelief. “Why me? Why this hotel?”

“ _Why me?_ ” the Cat mocks his tone, still shaking out water as if personally affronted. “ _Why pick on me? Why am I so unlucky?_ ” He laughs bitterly. “Oh, God, listen to yourself. Bullies always fucking cry the hardest. Grow a pair, for God’s sake.” The Cat comes closer to Drost, as if he’s never been unnerved in his life. “C’mon, let’s blow this joint. The elevators are down. Are you gonna play nice or what?”

The Cat, who has been wrapping his whip around his fist as he was speaking, now lets it fly, cracking the air in front of Drost’s crotch, making him flinch and jump back reflexively. He lets out a high-pitched, frightened squeal. The Cat smirks.

“Where… where are you ta… taking me?”

“To play with me!” the Cat sings. One of his large green eyes winks at Drost, and his cheek sinks into a deep dimple. “Even though I’m the only one who’s been in love with me, I get so bored of playing with myself, you know? But back to you, T. You like games?”

“I… don't know.”

The Cat approaches Drost. “C’mon.” He tips his chin. “Hands in front.”

The smell of smoke is now acrid in Drost’s nostrils. He sees no choice. Reluctantly, he puts both hands out.

The Cat takes out a pair of black leather cuffs with metallic studs, and forcefully snaps them to Drost’s wrists. In a matter-of-fact, bored manner, he clamps a metal clasp to hold them together, like handcuffs.

“They're not gonna hurt you,” the Cat says, giving the clasp a reassuring pat, like a mother sending a child to school. “Unless you try to run. Then they’ll rip your fucking hands off. Just behave.”

He jerks Drost forward by the clasp. Drost feels the Cat’s muscularity, the ease of yanking him like he’s made of nothing. He doesn't dare to resist. They advance to the elevator.

“But I thought you said — “ Drost starts to say.

As fast as lightning, the Cat twists around and smacks Drost across the mouth. The force of the attack sends him backward, making him lose his balance. The pain reaches inside his mouth and stings his gums. It's more than leather, Drost realizes. There's something else, sharp and heavy, like a set of claws, hidden within the glove. He staggers to right himself and winces sharply, not daring to make another sound.

“Don't speak until you're spoken to,” the Cat admonishes with bemusement. “It’s not polite. Don’t you know how this goes?”

Drost feels the sharp, stabbing pain drill into his lips and teeth. He raises his cuffed hands gingerly, feeling the pattern of claw marks as it reddens and swells inside his cheeks. He cowers, too scared to make a sound.

Drost waits silently as the Cat pries the elevator doors open, the sheer effort of it straining the muscles in his back and outlining their sleek bulk. The shaft stands dark and empty before them, some fifty floors from the ground. Drost has a terrible premonition, and wants badly to whimper.

From somewhere near his waist, the Cat draws out a thin, nearly invisible line. He attaches it around Drost and then hooks it into his belt. He then unclasps something from his thigh, and reaches into the elevator shaft to attach himself. Drost watches him with morbid anticipation, his legs feeling weaker by the second.

“Hey, you like dead falls?” the Cat asks him softly.

Before Drost can answer, the Cat tugs him forward and they begin to plunge into the empty space of the elevator shaft. They are held only by the metal grip that Cat has attached to the thick steel wires. Drost lets out a primal scream as they plummet in the unseeing darkness, his crotch wetting in terror, his whole body drenched in a cold sweat.

Sparks fly from the metal-on-metal contact. Drost feels the sheer power of the Cat’s shoulders as he holds them both, braking hard when they near bottom, and landing with a _thud!_ on the ground.

Then they are unhooked. The Cat brusquely shoves Drost away. He lowers his goggles to his face and switches on the illumination.

An acrid smell has filled their nostrils all the way down. When Drost glances above, he sees the thick and dark gray smoke entering the elevator shaft from fifty stories up.

When will this nightmare end? He doesn't know whether to scream or cry.

The Cat forces open the elevator doors. When Drost steps out, he realizes they are on the mezzanine floor. It appears deserted, the lights shining brightly, the hallway with stray papers on the carpets, as if left in a hurry. It looks both blandly corporate and eerily, hastily abandoned.

Drost is forcefully tugged forward by his cuffs, toward a stairway. He follows in his wet trousers, the moisture seeping into his socks and shoes and the embarrassing smell of urine floating up.

The Cat turns the doorknob for the stairwell. Once open, Drost sees something like a play tunnel for children, in bright rainbow colors, but large enough for an adult, stretching away from the door and down the stairs. Obviously it had been set up in anticipation of their arrival. It's bright and cheerful, and conjures a darkly ironic humor, completely inappropriate to the moment. Drost has been questioning the Cat’s sanity, but now he is truly afraid the Cat is an unhinged psychopath. He looks questioning toward his captor.

“After you,” Cat nods, then gestures with a slight bow and one open, gloved hand.

Drost opens his mouth, but stops himself in time. The Cat tilts his head, puzzled, and then sighs dramatically. “Go ahead. You can talk.”

“I don't know,” Drost stammers. “I… I don't know if I can walk, with cuffs on. It... it hurts.”  He holds his hands out, appealing for release.

The Cat stares at him for a beat, considers, and then unhooks the clasp and slides his cuffs off.

For a second, Drost studies the Cat, weighing his options. The Cat stands coquettishly before him, his long, lithe body elongated by heeled black boots, every inch of skin covered in buttery black leather except for the exposed, peachy area around his mesmerizing eyes and mouth.

Then, with sudden momentum, Drost takes off running into the play structure, quick in his awkward, stumbling way. The Cat watches him scamper. His lips pucker in amusement, and his brows knit together fondly, appreciating Drost’s attempt to escape.

The Cat loves a feisty opponent. Otherwise crime just doesn't play.

The lights flicker off, and the stairwell goes dark. 

Like a shadow, the Cat begins his chase. His goggles afford him military-grade night vision, with their infrared sensors. His gloves and soft-heeled boots make him virtually soundless. In the night, with his black suit invisible, he can slide through air like a demon spirit.

He sees Drost clownishly scramble and bump into the walls, just ahead. He's funny in a hapless, slapstick way, like a drunken mouse in a laboratory maze. It’s too easy for the Cat. He's not really into humiliation. He would almost feel sorry for Drost, if he were the kind of person who deserved it.

Just before Drost fumbles for the doorknob, the Cat flings his bullwhip toward Drost’s hand and slaps it away with a cutting _thwack!_

The Cat hears the expected sharp, terrified yelp.

“Rude,” the Cat says, diffidently, “leaving before the climax. Don't keep me on edge, T.” He laughs at his own joke. “Always denying me. Hahaha! I don’t like that. I _do_ , but I don’t, not with you.” 

The Cat spins his bullwhip and flings it again. It stings Drost’s side so forcefully that he almost falls over. In shock, Drost cries out pathetically, staggering in the darkness.

“Let me go!” Drost pleads. “Please. I beg you, whoever you are. I'm — I’m a rich man. My people can give you things — money, a getaway car, whatever you want. You won't get in trouble, I swear. You’ll have — ”

“Jesus, of course I’m not gonna _get in trouble_ ,” the Cat retorts. His voice drips with indignation. “What do you take me for?” The Cat pretends to look at his fingernails through the gloves. He’s in absolute control, and highly amused. “T, I'm feeling a little bit insulted here.”

“No! I meant — ”

“You just assumed everyone has a price, right?” The Cat interrupts. “Everyone can be bought. ‘Cause everyone thinks like you, right?” The Cat sneers. “Wrong. There are things money can’t buy.”

“Then what?” Drost whimpers. “Why do you — I don’t get it. What do you want?”

The Cat laughs and purrs at the same time, a deep, rumbling sound. From his belt, he pulls out a length of rope, almost invisible but with incredible tensile strength, and forcefully ties Drost’s hands behind his back.

“ _Who_ ,” he says. “It's _who_ I want, Trenton. C’mon, think! Reach into your underdeveloped imagination, and tell me the _one person_ who might possibly show up.” The Cat pauses, theatrically wondering out loud, tapping his fingers against his chin. “Hmm. Who _could_ it be? Speaking of which, where is he? Why isn't he here to save you?”

Realization dawns on Drost’s sweaty face. It opens in understanding and worry, as he has a sudden grasp of his situation.

Drost realizes he's been chosen as bait in a violent pissing contest.

“ _Batman_ ,” he says, with a sharp intake of breath. “That's who you want, isn't it? I'm sure he’ll be here soon. He cares about Gotham’s citizens. He’s — “

As Drost rambles on, the Cat reaches into his belt, and dramatically stuffs a wad of green acrylic yarn into Drost’s mouth.

“ _Blah blah blah._ You believe he loves you, your heroic Batman, don't you? How very romantic!” The Cat laughs, a bone-chilling spark of mirthless sound. “What a pity. I would have liked to meet Batman. I have to admit, I really enjoy a professional. Bet he’s better at games than you. I mean, no offense, but you kinda _suck_.”

The Cat nudges the door open to the dark alley outside. They can see and hear the pandemonium in the main avenue. Sirens blare, horns honk, and people are shouting everywhere. At least five fire trucks are parked at various angles, and hoses are being assembled. Hotel guests in various states of undress, holding whatever they can carry, are milling around anxiously. By the way some of them are dressed, they were inadvertently caught _in_ _delicto_ _flagrante_. Smoke pours out of the building above where they just exited.

Drost looks back at the Cat frantically and then at the street again. Even if he strains, he can’t be heard from this far away, not with a mouth gag.

As if reading his mind, the Cat kicks him lightly behind the heels, so he falls. He ties Drost’s ankles together, but his mind seems distracted elsewhere, barely giving Drost any attention. The Cat is craning his head at an angle, intently listening to something.

Then he speaks, apparently into a microphone, “What? I thought everyone was out.” His eyes focus in the distance, tuning Drost out. “You sure? Alright, then. How big? Do you suppose it could be a baby? No, I'm not leaving it. No, Ni, I'm not gonna do that. I'm going back in. How much time, d’you think?” He pauses to listen, nodding ever so slightly. “Second floor? Wait for me. No, I'm not leaving it. Monitor me. Just… wait till I'm out. My signal’s on — now.”

The Cat looks at Drost in an annoyed way, then drags him to the side of the building, hidden from the street by an industrial trash bin. Drost wiggles like a blind worm, making an incoherent noise. The Cat pushes him into the farthest corner against the bin, so that he stays completely hidden.

He enters through the door again, goggles on, and climbs the stairs three at a time. In a few minutes, he arrives on the second floor. He slams open the door to the hallway and runs down, scanning through his goggles with military efficiency. Everything lights up under the infrared detection, as most objects in the hallway have absorbed the heat of the fire above. The air is thick and smoky, and it’s hard to breathe . The infrared signal goes aflame when he spots the creature at the end of the hallway. He hurries toward it.

“Shhh. Come on,” the Cat bends at the knees and crouches down. He extends his right hand to coax the creature. “Sweetheart, come here. Don't be scared.” He makes soft, cooing noises. “Come along, darling.”

A black kitten, with a spot of white on his forehead and amber-green eyes, meows and scampers into Cat’s hands. Cat scoops it up and hugs it close to his chest.

“Could’ve been a close one, darling.”

He feels the heat radiating through the ceiling. The flames must be dangerously close.

Opening a window, he spots a metallic eave attached to the brick wall across the street — a banner hanger, perhaps. It’s flimsy, but will have to do. On the second try, the bullwhip grips tightly around it. The Cat swings out of the window and toward the ground, cuddling the kitten close to his chest. The kitten shivers and meows softly.

“Shhh, sweetie,” he says. “Almost there.”

As he contacts the ground, he speaks into his mic, “D’you get my signal, Niall? I'm out.”

The Cat gently sets the tiny kitten on the ground, and scoots its butt to get it running. Crossing the alley in long strides, he grabs Drost by his bespoke suit, and powerfully drags him on the ground, far away from the building, along the wall on the other side and further down the alley.

With a delicate fastidiousness, he pins an ornamental arrow to Drost’s shirt. Attached to the arrow is a shiny medal, the kind given for winning school track meets. Gold-colored letters spell out the words: **_Aveugle par amour._**

As the Cat steps back to admire his handiwork, a large firework shoots out from the highest point of The LAIRE. Even as the guests outside are trying to process this new spectacle, it is clear that the building is imploding from within, the structure crumbling on itself, as if rotting from the inside. The fireworks add a grim coda to the celebrations of the evening. The Cat cranes his head to admire the fireworks.

They explode into two large, red, spectacular, interlocking hearts, fading outward like ripples into the dark night. Then a smaller, contrasting explosion inside the hearts reveals a familiar, golden sign with its pointed ears and spread wings: the signal for Batman.

A feat of pyrotechnic ingenuity reveals a third, and final explosion: an arrow, traveling from left to right, piercing the Bat signal and cleaving it into two. The Bat signal dissolves and is vanquished.

Just then, a rumble forecasts the building’s imminent destruction. People scream and run away in every direction, as police and fire department vehicles are abandoned. The scene of chaos below is dwarfed by the terrible wracking noises from within the building. The LAIRE’s lights waver and blink, and go out all at once. A corner of the building tumbles, and then the structure crashes down like an unstoppable avalanche.

The Cat swishes his bullwhip on the ground, gleefully taking in the spectacle.

“Show yourself, Batman. Everyone’s waiting.”

The Cat watches the building dissolve, his green eyes staring through the dissolution as if summoning his opponent.

“Come out and play.”

 

 

 

 

Thank you for reading this far!

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Gina flew down from the sky to give me this [art](https://www.instagram.com/p/BaNC7MQH6tX/), and [x](https://www.instagram.com/p/BaPIgvaHPop/), and [x](https://twopoppies.tumblr.com/post/166356894281/twopoppies-yellow-by-13ways-of-looking-art). 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 _Your skin_  
_Oh yeah, your skin and bones_

 

 

  
Louis rushes at the boy without thinking, his head filled with hot indignation. His fists clench like small, hard hearts, and his blood pulses with a fire across his brain.

He feels a sharp slap to his cheek. Louis touches his face, and then grabs the boy's shirt and drags him to the ground.

“Get him, Watson!”

“Come on, Ian!”

“Tommo, sock it to him!”

The crowd of schoolboys screams their excitement, aroused by the intense emotion of the sudden violence before them. They bunch around in a circle and kick dirt into the air.

Louis and Ian Watson are tumbling on the ground. Louis feels a punch to his side. He grabs the boy’s hair and yanks hard, drawing an angry yawp, and then grasps him under the armpits and tries to throw him over. But Ian Watson is heavier and bigger, and Louis lacks the brute strength to overpower him. Louis tries kicking him next, but his position is awkward. Ian senses Louis struggling and leans on him, pinning him to the ground.

Suddenly Ian’s hand goes around Louis' throat. Louis feels the stricture acutely, his airway cut off. He grabs at the hand, but it is too large and too strong. Louis brings his hand to Ian’s head and boxes him in the ear, but Ian continues to hold on, unrelenting and steadfast, until Louis feels lightheaded. His vision goes blurry, as a darkness gathers in the periphery.

He tries to kick Ian again, but it’s a feeble attempt. His feet wave like flags in the wind. Louis tries to open his mouth to bite Ian’s hand, but he’s fading fast. His throat can’t even make a sound.

Louis feels a dull kick on his side, but it doesn't land on him. Instead, it seems to be another boy, kicking Ian’s side. The small, pointed blows shift their bodies with each contact.

The crowd boos its displeasure. Someone has disrupted the fight, trying to free Louis. They’ve disturbed the natural balance of power.

Louis feels the kick in their sides again, harder. Then Ian’s hand lets go, and his body twists to grab the ankle of the foot that kicked him. The ankle is too fast. It has spun free of their circle already.

Louis gulps air desperately and sharply, his hands coming up to protect his neck. His skin is wretchedly sore, and his throat burns with the effort to breathe.

To his right, he sees a mop of curls standing to the periphery, a thin, dark silhouette against the sun. Ian breaks free and scrambles up.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s fighting Tommo’s battles for him,” Ian says, breathing hard and wiping his mouth. “ _His pretty little girlfriend._ ”

Louis gets up slowly, holding his throat. He doesn't recognize Curls, standing defiantly across from Ian, knees slightly bent and fists in front, in a fighting stance. He must be new, Louis thinks. He is younger and appears smaller than Louis and Ian — barely out of childhood. His straight brows are knitted furiously. Beneath them are luminescent eyes, as green as the summer forest.

“Stop it.” Louis tries to talk, but it comes out a dry croak. “Leave him alone, Ian. He didn’t do anything.”

Ian’s friends gather behind him, a gang of five. They smell the hint of a bigger fight. The crowd has grown, and the circle too, as more curious kids join the audience, lured by the violent entertainment.

Curls doesn't say anything. He doesn't take his eyes off Ian. His lips pinch in a tight line.

Louis looks from Ian and his friends to Curls. With a sickening flash of understanding, he knows exactly what’s going to happen.

Ian sneers and rushes toward Curls, catching him in the middle. Curls begins to pummel Ian everywhere he can, but the bigger boy has him in a tight hold. Ian pushes him to the ground and pins him down, his weight holding Curls immobile. Ian’s friends scramble to hold down Curls’ arms and legs as Ian sits on his chest.

Triumphantly, Ian smiles. A drop of saliva rolls down the corner of his mouth.

“What's your name, new kid?” Ian confronts him.

There's no response. Curls simply glares, his brows knitted in defiance.

“Do you like him?” Ian taunts, flicking his head toward Louis. “Do you? Tommo’s your boyfriend, ain't he? Admit it.”

Curls continues to stare defiantly at him, his lips pinched fiercely shut.

“The heck’s wrong with you? Cat got your tongue?”

Ian grabs the kid’s chin hard, pinching his mouth painfully. With a vicious twist, he turns Curls’ head toward Louis.

“Say it,” he says. “He's your boy. You want him.”

The crowd turns silent and expectant, eager for a reaction.

Ian laughs as his friends hold his victim down. His mouth gathers a wad of saliva, then lets it drip onto Curls’ face. A slimy trail dribbles down his cheek, but other than a reflexive blink, the boy doesn't flinch. His eyes glisten with the threat of tears, but his face stays fearless.

 _You have to protect those smaller than you_ , Louis remembers. His father said those words as they were walking out of the opera house, on that terrible night. He was holding Louis' hand as they came out the side exit. They left early because Louis felt unwell, the way he’s feeling now, his heart hammering away, his skin clammy, his stomach in his throat.

The memory floods back with a kick.

The man had cornered his parents, his face shaded by a hat, his mouth big and cruel. His father had reached for his wallet. The man tried to grab his mother’s purse, and Louis had put his tiny hand out to stop him. The man brutally pushed Louis' face away. Then his father had stepped in front of Louis. A few seconds of graceless motion followed, with obscuring cloth and shuffling and gunshots, and his mother screaming — then all was still.

 _You have to protect those smaller than you,_ Louis heard, his father’s voice commanding and sure. _Even if it means you get hurt. Even if you’re afraid._

Gone. His father and mother were both gone. After his parents were murdered, Louis had moved in with his grandfather, into the palatial Tomlinson Manor. He spent many evenings by himself, as his grandfather either worked late or went to sleep early.

Louis was used to being alone.

“Let him go,” Louis now shouts.

“What are you going to do about it, Tommo?” Ian jeers. “You gonna fight for him? You can't even defend yourself.”

Louis walks up to Ian, still sitting on Curls. He stares at Ian with indignation and silent anger, gathering his momentum. Ian stares back, his face snarled in confidence and contempt.

Then, with a speedy, elegant deliberation, Louis’ body suddenly spins a full circle. His leg swings up to kick Ian swiftly in the face, and then he spins back, his weight resting on his front leg. It’s done before anyone realizes what happened. 

Ian’s head snaps back. A trickle of blood runs from his nose as his whole body rears back in pain. In the confusion of the moment, his friends let up the pressure on Curls.

Curls takes the opportunity to knee Ian in the groin. His reflexes are lightning fast, like Louis’. Ian sinks back painfully, one hand on his face, the other on his crotch. A brisk rivulet of blood runs down from his nose. His friends scramble in surprise, letting go of Curls, who rises quickly.

Louis realizes Curls isn't short — he is merely thin, with a small, delicate frame. In fact, he's actually a bit taller than Louis. There's dirt and spittle on his face, and moisture in the outer corner of his eye, but he doesn't make a sound. He wipes his face roughly with the back of a hand.

“What's going on here?”

An adult — Mr. McGee, the headmaster of the school — is approaching the boys. His tall, gaunt frame casts a long shadow. Boys scramble every which way, hastily making themselves scarce. Soon only Ian, his friends, Louis, and Curls are left on the playground.

“Tomlinson picked a fight, sir,” Ian sniffs, looking the worst of the bunch. “He nearly broke my nose!”

McGee surveys the situation. Louis and Curls are standing to one side, Ian is on the ground, blood dripping from his nose, and his friends are staring at the two boys anxiously. His face is unperturbed as he makes soft clicks on his tongue.

“Styles?” McGee hones in on Curls. “What’s your involvement, then?”

Curls looks down. He lifts a corner of his shirt to wipe his face, but says nothing in reply. A threat of repercussion hangs in the silence. Louis looks from Ian, to Mr. McGee, to Curls, and nervously shifts his feet.

“Curls — I mean, Styles — he tried to break it up,” Louis jumps in. “It was my fault, Mr. McGee, sir. I started it.” He looks to Ian, who exchanges some glances with his friends, all of whom are assiduously avoiding eye contact with Mr. McGee.

Louis adds, “I'm sorry, sir.”

“Styles? I believe I addressed you.” McGee, ignoring Louis, asks Curls again, waiting expectantly.

Curls mutters under his breath, so softly that it almost sounds like breathing.

“None of your fucking business.”

Louis snaps his head up, staring at him in shock. Curls’ voice is high like a young child’s, and sounds as clear as a church bell. It's almost as if he’s singing, or reciting poetry, elegant and honest. Louis’ heart lurches for him.

“What did you say?” McGee asks, incredulous.

“Said it's none of your fucking business.” Styles raises his head challengingly. “Mr. McGee, sir.”

“Ah,” McGee says gravely. “I see.” He swallows, his anger silent but palpable. “You will see me after school, Styles.” He turns toward Louis. “You, too, Tomlinson. You will both learn some manners. The rest of you,” he motions to the other boys, “scram. Don't let me catch you again, or you’ll be joining these two.” He eyes them darkly, and then strolls away, hands clenched stiffly at his side.

Ian holds his nose and looks from Louis to Styles — Louis assumes that’s a surname — and starts walking away with a dark smirk. Whatever they have waiting for them at McGee’s office will be much worse than what he can dish out at the moment.

After everyone else has gone, Louis checks out the new boy, the boy who interfered, the mysterious Good Samaritan.

His hands remain by his side. The little finger on his left hand is held apart from all the other fingers, as if it’s going away on a field trip. Louis wonders whether he realizes how it looks, how endearingly peculiar.

Styles’ curls run messily down his face and down the back of his neck, like tendrils in the jungle. In fact, he quite resembles Mowgli, the character from The Jungle Book, with his long limbs and his fingers curled at his side. Louis snickers at this thought. Styles’ eyes are reflecting a greenish gold, the color of a lagoon.

Louis thinks he’s the most alarmingly beautiful person he's ever seen. He's never met anyone quite like him.

“I'm Louis.” Louis raises his eyes to squint at him.

The other boy says nothing. He meets Louis' eyes and stares through him.

“Um, thanks for — “ Louis hesitates.

_For what? For putting yourself in danger to save me, when I should be saving everyone else?_

“Thanks for jumping in,” Louis says.

“You really shouldn’t start something you can't finish.” Styles sounds angry. “That was so _stupid_.”

“What? You should talk!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Didn’t you notice? You got _owned,_ ” Louis retorts. He doesn't understand how someone so brave can be so dense. “In case you were in a coma, you were about to be beaten to a pulp, five to one.”

“So what?”

Louis widens his eyes with disbelief. “ _So?_ You weren't doing so hot yourself, dude. Watson was about to rearrange your face.”

“Nope,” Styles answers, defiant. “He wasn't. You don't know what you're talking about. I never lose.”

“Yeah, okay,” Louis deadpans. “Your face would have totally destroyed his fist.”

Styles shrugs. “Whatever. I would have figured it out.”

Louis frowns and shakes his head. “Really? Last minute miracle?” 

Styles talks past him. “I’m Harry, by the way.”

“Hiya, Harry.” Louis extends his hand. “You're new, aren't you?”

“Yeah, but I probably won't last very long,” Harry says. They shake hands. Despite his size, Harry’s hand is big and dry, Louis notices. He has a strong grip. “I never stick around.” 

“Have you been to lots of schools?”

“Nine.” Harry smiles, but there's no happiness in it. “Counting this one. You know how they say a cat’s got nine lives? Well, I might be on my last one.”

“Oh.” Louis feels bad for the kid, but doesn't know what to say. “Do your parents move around a lot?”

“Haven't got any,” Harry answers. “Dad left after I was born. Mom died when I was six.”

“Oh,” Louis says again. “Holy cow. I'm sorry.” He looks down, not knowing what to say. Finally he adds, “I'm an orphan as well. I live with my grandfather.”

Harry considers this. “How did your parents… you know…”

“They were killed,” Louis says. “A long time ago.” He closes his mouth and waits. Harry doesn't ask, and he doesn't say anymore.

There’s an awkward pause where they both look at their feet. Then Harry asks, “Hey, Louis, how did you learn — uh — ”

“Learn what?”

Harry raises one leg and kicks it out quickly, mimicking Louis’ earlier movement. “ _That_. To fight like that.”

“You mean,” Louis spins and rapidly raises his leg up to Harry’s chin. He stops just short of contact. “Like this?”

As Louis’s foot swings toward him, Harry’s head doesn't flinch; he doesn’t even blink.

“Like that,” Harry replies calmly. Then he adds, “You might have broken his nose, you know.”

“You mean when I _saved_ you?” Louis retorts. “Pfft. You're welcome, by the way. Ian was going to totally kick your ass, and rearrange your pretty little — ”

“My what?” Harry turns sharply to look at Louis, wrinkling his nose.

Louis' face flushes a deep cherry red.

“He would have mangled your face, that's all.” Louis scratches his cheek in embarrassment, looking away. “Anyway, it’s mixed martial arts. I take classes. It's strictly for self-defense.”

“I don't care _why_ you take the classes, Lou,” Harry says, brusquely. “Do you think you can teach me?”

“Um, sure,” Louis says, uncertainly. He’s never taught anyone, doesn't even know whether he can teach anyone. “Why do you want to learn?”

“Because I want to win, _duh?”_ Harry says, as if he’s answering an obtuse question. “Don't you? Always wanna win?”

“I guess,” Louis demurs.

_You have to protect those smaller than you. Even if it means harm. Even if you’re afraid._

Harry turns on his heels. “Hey, I'll see you after school,” he says. “At _Lamemaster_ McGee’s.”

“Oh, right. Yeah.”

Louis watches Harry walk away, waving like a reed in the wind. He’s never felt so uncertain about himself, nor so full of happiness.

  
•••

  
Louis and Harry are waiting silently in the anteroom of the headmaster’s office, sitting next to each other in wooden chairs. The varnish on the arms has worn off from hands polishing them over the years. Louis looks with uncertainty at Harry, and Harry glances back with a confident sneer.

He pinches his face ever so slightly, mimicking McGee’s expression. Louis huffs out a laugh.

The door to the office opens.

“Styles,” McGee orders. He stares purposefully at Harry.

Harry stands up and surreptitiously looks down at Louis. When McGee turns around, Louis reaches for Harry’s fingers and squeezes. Harry squeezes back, hiding a smile. His lips curl up impetuously. He follows McGee silently into the office.

Louis hears the door click shut. For a minute, he doesn't hear anything. Then he hears the sound of dampened voices, McGee’s menacing and low, Harry’s higher, sharper. The voices rise in volume and continue for minutes. There’s a silence again. Louis waits, confused, in the ensuing blankness. 

Then, slicing through the air, he hears a dull, whooshing sound, like someone cutting fruit, or slapping a rug.

Another.

And another.

Then Louis hears a sound he will never forget. It's the sound of Harry crying out, but then immediately, consciously trying to stop it. The high, sharp hiccup and bark are more terrible than crying itself. Louis rises up, his hands curled tightly into fists. His jaw clenches.

The sounds keep coming.

The strike.

Then the bark of suppressed crying.

It seems to last fifteen or twenty times, but Louis stops counting. His knuckles have become bone white.

Finally, there's silence. Louis stares at the door as if gazing into the mouth of a nightmare. The door slowly opens.

Harry comes out first. His head is down. His damp curls are plastered to his forehead, and his neck is flushed. He walks past Louis without a second glance. Louis notices that he seems unsteady, as if making an effort to walk. His expression is indecipherable, but his face is a wet mess.

Louis holds his hand out, but Harry’s stay tightly by his side. He skirts Louis without contact, nor any words. As he walks by, Louis notices thin streaks of blood on the sides of one clenched fist. Louis jerks his head to look at McGee’s impassive face, then twists around to watch Harry leave through the door.

With trepidation, Louis turns and faces McGee.

“Tomlinson.” McGee has a triumphant smirk on his face. Louis despises him with his whole being.

“What happened to Harry?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Louis knows it was the wrong question to ask. McGee’s face shows a wrinkle of perturbance around his placid eyes. Louis’ words hang in the air like inconvenient realities.

“Styles,” McGee says smugly, “apologized. He owned up to starting the fight earlier.” He stops to gauge Louis' reaction, his gray eyes like nails driving into Louis. “He took his punishment like a man.”

“How?” Louis waits anxiously.

“A bit of caning,” McGee answers, his eyes gleeful, a closed smile on his face. “Tried and true. Straightened out many a crooked lad.”

Hearing his words, Louis feels sick to his stomach, his legs like wet noodles. Part of him wants to punch McGee in the face, but it's an impossible fantasy. He sinks his shoulders against the wall, his belly caving in.

“But — ” Louis stutters. “He didn't — ”

His heart rushes to the beat of _Harry, Harry, Harry._ He wants to rush after him, but feels rooted to the spot.

“But, he did, Louis,” McGee says. “Poor child. Shuffled from one foster family to another, never learning about morals, or hard work, or discipline. Misbehavior is how he gets attention. Only persistence and love can soften a hard heart like that. It befalls us to provide what he lacks at home.”

“That’s n — not — not true,” Louis stammers, shaking his head. “It was me. And Ian Watson. We started it. Harry just stepped in to stop the fight.”

“A Tomlinson, starting a fight?” McGee says. “I think not. Your grandfather has been a generous donor to our school for decades, Louis. You don't have to cover for a street urchin like that. He's not one of you — not one of _us_ , you see. Once we talked about it, Styles admitted to everything.”

McGee watches Louis' face closely. It shows a clamor of emotions, fear and sadness mixed with tenderness and sympathy, and a guilt so deep that it threatens to cut Louis in half.

“I'm just happy that Styles chose to do the right thing,” he continues, sighing paternally. “Sometimes they don't, you know, and it turns out rather badly. For everyone. There might be hope for this lad yet. Perhaps one day, he can become a useful member of society, a civil servant, perhaps. A postman, or a trash collector. Maybe even in pest control.”

Louis turns around and shakes his head. He stares intensely at the door where Harry just walked out, as if he could conjure Harry to reappear just by wishing it so.

“It's not fair,” Louis whispers. His stomach churns violently and he wants to vomit.

McGee clears his throat. “You're free to go, Louis.”

Louis raises his head and looks at McGee’s long, satisfied face. McGee approaches him and takes his elbow to steer him out. His touch is gentle but steady, pushing Louis toward the door.

“Yes, yes. Go on. Give my regards to your grandfather, lad,” McGee says, as he shuts the door behind Louis. Louis stands, not quite realizing he has been dismissed, words still lingering on his tongue.

Louis looks down the corridor. The hallway is empty, with the appearance of a normal, everyday, smoothly functioning bureaucracy.

Everything is tidy.

And Harry is long gone.

 

 

 

[Moodboard ](https://www.instagram.com/p/BZ-BgtgHHhC/?taken-by=twopoppies_art) provided by [@twopoppies](https://www.instagram.com/twopoppies_art/)


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

“The dilemma of the trolley,” Professor Vermeer says, erasing the blackboard.

A wiry woman in her late forties, the professor has streaks of white in her blond hair. She wears glasses, an Oxford shirt, and wool pants.

On the blackboard, she draws a schematic diagram with parallel and curved lines, forming a Y. On one side she draws five circles, and on the other, a single large circle.

Louis flips open his notebook and copies the diagram down. His friend Liam Payne sits on his right, and Zayn Malik on his left.

Moral philosophy is a required course for graduation at Gotham University. Louis has already heard Zayn’s excessive complaints about spending time on hypothetical discussions, when he is studying to be a weapons engineer. Zayn wants to work for the military; he finds courses in the humanities a waste of time. Liam, on the other hand, is studying business, and feels happy to miss his bone-dry economics lectures. They're in the fall semester of their last year, eight months from graduation.

“Suppose you're the engineer on a railroad track,” Professor Vermeer says. “You receive a message that a runaway train is barreling down the tracks. It's unstoppable.” She surveys the class to make sure they're paying attention.

“Five people are standing on the track that the train is going down. They will surely be killed when struck by the train.” She points to the five circles. Then she points to the other track. “But as the controller, you can throw a switch to redirect the train to the other track…”

“... where there’s an innocent person standing,” Zayn mutters.

“What?” Liam loudly whispers across Louis.

“That’s the dilemma, Li,” Zayn whispers back.

“Mr. Malik!” Professor Vermeer addresses him. “Something to share?”

Zayn clears his throat. “Sorry, Professor. It's… uh… I mean, that's the ethical dilemma, isn't it?” he offers. “There's a person on the other track. Doing nothing will spare his life. Throwing the switch saves the other five people, but kills this guy, who wasn't supposed to die.”

“Ah! Very good!” Professor Vermeer says. Her eyes crinkle with amusement. “I like the way you said that, _supposed_ to die. Can you explain what you mean?”

“Well, the train wasn't meant for him,” Zayn says. “It was meant for the others. By throwing the switch, you’re deliberately killing him.”

“But the train wasn't meant for the five people, either, Zaynie!” Liam chimes in. “They’re just as unlucky as the one person.”

“Except no one threw a switch to kill them,” Zayn says. “It was fate. There's a difference.”

“Yeah,” Liam retorts. He leans across Louis. “There is, alright. One death versus five.”

“That's the gist of the dilemma,” Professor Vermeer says, “isn't it? The utilitarian argument versus the active death. The utilitarians say that the fewer deaths, the better. It's the lesser of two evils. But is passively letting people die different than actively causing their death? Is there a moral imperative against actively causing an innocent person’s death?”

The room breaks out in murmurs and whispers, and hands shoot up in the air. Professor Vermeer shushes them.

“I'd like you to think about that,” she says. “There have been studies on different cultures, and most people do go with Mr. Payne’s choice, to throw the switch. But,” she pauses, and sweeps her eyes across the room, ”is it ever morally justified to cause a death? I also want you to think about two other scenarios. First, think about the person on the other track as someone you know.”

“Well, if it’s one of these two,” Louis speaks up, pushing Liam’s arm off his desk, “I’d _pay_ for someone to throw the switch.”

“Thanks a lot!” Liam puts his arm back on the desk.

Professor Vermeer quiets the laughter around them. “It has to be someone you like, Mr. Tomlinson, someone you care about.”

Louis raises one corner of his mouth sardonically. Zayn and Liam bump their fists behind Louis’s back.

“Say, your best friend,” Professor Vermeer says. “Or your child.”

Murmurs break out again.

“Of course you wouldn't sacrifice your child!” someone shouts out. Others talk over him.

The professor puts up her hand. The room quiets down.

“Okay. So, we agree. There are extenuating circumstances, you think. The identity of the sacrificial victim makes a difference, doesn't it? This leads us to the second question,” Professor Vermeer continues. “What if that person is you? What if you can sacrifice yourself? Not knowing anything about those five other people. They're complete strangers to you. Would you die, to save strangers?”

Louis raises his hand.

“Let’s say this martyrdom takes place _after_ the final paper is due, Mr. Tomlinson,” Professor Vermeer says in a matter-of-fact way. “You still have to turn it in. No paper, no graduation.”

With a groan, Louis slowly lowers his hand. Liam affectionately slings his arm around Louis, and brings his other hand to give Louis a rub on the head. Louis flicks it away, annoyed.

“Alright,” Professor Vermeer says, “does anyone want to talk about the Titanic reading that you were supposed to have done for today? We were discussing the lifeboat dilemma.” She looks around the room for raised hands. “Anyone?”

At that moment, a young woman rushes through the doors. Louis recognizes her as a sophomore, now standing ill-at-ease. After the professor quiets the class, the student makes her announcement.

“Louis Tomlinson,” she says, looking up. “You're wanted at the Dean’s office.”

Louis exchanges puzzled glances with Zayn and Liam, and then gathers his stuff to put into the backpack. During all his years at university, he has yet to see a student called out of class. There's an unsettled feeling in his stomach. His hands fumble awkwardly, and his feet don't seem to want to move. The student messenger’s expression doesn't give any clues as to how serious this might be.

Louis skips down the steps to the front of the classroom. Professor Vermeer dismisses him with a nod. The student turns her back, and Louis follows her out the door.

Once they’re in the hallway, Louis puts his hand out to stop her. He’s curious and a bit worried.

“Hey, hold up,” Louis says, touching her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Don't know,” the student answers. “Someone’s waiting for you. They said it was important. Said it had to be in person.”

They walk the remainder of the way in silence. Louis is turning over various possibilities in his mind. Surely he didn't do anything bad enough to be expelled from school — did he? There was that party they went to last weekend, where there was some weed going around, but… come on, it was just _weed_. If not that, then what? Since when does anything Louis does cause the slightest ruckus? Because of his grandfather’s influence, Louis had almost carte blanche to be the baddest bad boy on campus.

They reach the Dean’s office finally. Louis knocks, hears no answer, and twists the doorknob to enter.

The Dean of Students stands in front of a large walnut desk, chatting in low tones with a man in a dark suit, whose back is turned. When he turns around, Louis recognizes his grandfather’s lawyer, Mr. Marley.

“Louis,” Mr. Marley says, “how nice to see you again.”

“Mr. Marley,” Louis says quietly. “Sir.”

The older man seems grave and reserved, his manner respectful. Suddenly, Louis realizes why he might be there. An anxious anticipation settles in his stomach. He feels his heartbeats in his mouth, and deliberately tucks one hand into his pocket.

“I'm sorry, Louis,” Mr. Marley delivers the news. “Your grandfather passed away last night, in his sleep.”

Louis stops his breath at the announcement. His stomach knots and he feels nauseous, lightheaded. The last time he saw his grandfather was at the end of summer, when Louis had promised to come home for Christmas. His grandfather was recovering from pneumonia, but was well enough for daily strolls around the gardens. He had given Louis a hug before he left.

“He has left his estate to you, Louis,” Mr. Marley continues. “Naturally, he has designated some things to incidental beneficiaries, but the bulk of the estate is yours. There are time-sensitive steps we must take.” He pauses. “I thought it best to tell you in person. I am so very sorry.”

Louis has no ready reply. Everyone is waiting for him, their attention like an actual weight. He's being pressed down into the ground, asphyxiated. The air feels too heavy, too confining, too tight.

Finally, he composes himself to look at Mr. Marley.

“Should I come now?” he asks.

Mr. Marley sighs. His hands clasp together. “I do think it’s prudent. We have a lot to sort through.”

Louis’ shoulders sink. There's no point in staying at university now; his fate has been chosen. He meets Mr. Marley’s sympathetic eyes.

He truly has no one else in the world now.

He’s all alone.

  
•••

 

Harry rubs the scars in the palms of his hand out of habit. His right index finger traces the slightly raised strips of skin in his palm, parallel to the creases but cutting straight across his hand.

They don't hurt anymore. They used to, for years — first, the raw pain where the skin had flayed open from the caning, then itching as the wounds healed, then a dull, humiliating ache.

The scars are a receipt of a bill unpaid. Every time Harry runs his fingers over these scars, he wants to pay this debt.

_Someday._

He has run away from his last foster home. He swears it will be the last home he ever lives in.

Never another foster home, never another place he doesn't, and can't belong. Never, never again. Not after this.

They don’t care, the social workers. Maybe because he told them to fuck off. He probably shouldn't have done that, but fuck it. They don't care, they never care. They just want to sign off on the paperwork. They want to dot the _i’s_ and cross the _t’s_ , and they don't fucking listen. They don't even want to know.

The last family he lived with had six foster children, from two to eighteen-years-old. The parents were in their sixties; the old man was an alcoholic and he would beat them.

Well, not really. He would drink in a way that never showed when the social workers came, and he would beat the children in a way that never showed on their bodies.

As for Harry, who fought him hardest, the old man had a special punishment.

Whenever he wanted Harry to obey, he would deny Harry food or water until he submitted. He had his wife Agnes and the eighteen-year-old, Jarrod, pin Harry down.

Sixteen-year-old Harry would be forced to lie in a bathtub half-filled with cold water, naked, and be made to apologize. For every few seconds he stayed silent, the old man would pour water over his face.

It doesn't sound that bad, not really — until the thirtieth or fortieth time, when Harry is soaking in a tub full of cold water, and his nostrils are split from the chill, and his lips bleed from it.

Still, he doesn't say sorry. He's only sorry he has to live with such fucking evil people. Why the fuck do they exist. Why is he here? Will he ever be free from them?

The old man takes the nozzle of the garden hose and hooks it to the faucet.

“Stubborn son of a bitch,” he growls. “Tell me. Where did you go after school? How d’you get those bruises? Don't be lying to me, troublemaker.”

Harry wishes Louis were here. He wishes, hopes, and wants, but Louis’ not here, and can never be. This isn’t his world. He doesn't belong here. They can never belong together, no matter how intensely Harry wants it. Be real. Louis is a Tomlinson, and he would think this was some ugly, twisted shit. This is Harry’s reality, not his. Louis can’t find out. He can never find out.

The old man blocks the hose partway, so that he can focus the water into an ice-cold, painfully tight stream. The water hits Harry’s nose, stinging his eyes and dripping into his mouth. It tastes like shame.

Harry spits it out, but the unceasing flow makes it hard to breathe. He bows his head and tries to suck air through his mouth.

His head is yanked back. The old man grins, holding the hose in front of Harry’s nose.

“Why were you late?” He turns Harry’s head and nods at his jaw, where the bruise is a garish, purplish blue. “Where d’you get that from? Were you fighting again? Tell me, you little bastard.”

Harry gathers a mouthful of water and spits in his face.

The hose lets go, pouring ice over his cheeks, his eyes and nose. It burns like fire, stings like icicles. Harry’s bluish lips tremble. A stream of water in his nose makes him sputter, and he's coughing, choking, drowning.

Then he starts crying, and can't stop. He cries because he's hungry. He cries because he can't even name the hunger anymore.

Later, when he’s dry and shivering under a thin blanket, Harry makes a plan.

The water torture will never happen again. He will not allow it. He decides to make use of his chemistry lessons.

Harry saves enough money to buy a large bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin. The old man drinks whatever he can get his hands on, usually no-name vodka. He would be thrilled with something so pretty. What a pleasant surprise it would be, to find a bottle of Sapphire in the back of the liquor cabinet, like a peace offering from the prodigal son.

One night, after everyone has fallen asleep, and the old man has passed out snoring in his bedroom, Harry sneaks the gin out to the garage. A gallon-sized jug of windshield fluid sits on the shelf.

Harry carefully unseals the gin, dumps out half, and replaces it with the windshield fluid.

The mixture was a beautiful sky blue, tinted with a film of aqua.

He studies it with a mute satisfaction.

The next day, Harry comes back to an unusually noisy house. The kids are making their own dinner, boxed macaroni and cheese. The old man and his wife are nowhere in sight.

Jarrod is dragging on a cigarette in the kitchen, one leg propped on a chair. Irritated and bored, he flicks his ashes into an empty beer can.

“Where are they?” Harry asks casually. He opens the refrigerator and sees a half-empty container of bologna, beers, a shriveled apple, a moldy tomato.

“Who?”

“Old man and Agnes.” He takes out the bologna to make a sandwich.

“Hospital,” Jarrod replies. “Old man almost fucking kicked the bucket.”

“Really. Can't say I'm surprised,” Harry comments without emotion. He removes two slices of white bread and puts the bologna in. “What happened?”

“Agnes said something about kidney failure on the phone,” Jarrod says. “He was pretty out of it. Said he couldn't see; he was blind. Looked like a sack of shit — totally wasted, like, barely human.”

“Huh,” Harry replies, devoid of reaction. He takes out a beer from the fridge. “That's too bad.”

“Motherfucker deserves it,” Jarrod says, flicking his ashes. “What goes around comes around.” He stares at Harry with his watery gaze. “Right?”

Harry says nothing in reply. He opens his beer and takes his sandwich out of the kitchen.

Hours later, after Jarrod has left to do whatever Jarrod does, Harry sneaks the bottle of Sapphire out of the house, empties it behind the school grounds, and then throws it in the dumpster. No one needs to find that kind of evidence.

It’s 1 AM. Restless and nervous, Harry drives to Louis’, stumbles noisily through the bushes by the southern gardens of Tomlinson Manor. Finds the window that’s easy to jimmie, and in he goes. One last night together... but Louis will not know. Not until much later.

Before he leaves, Harry thinks about writing a note for Louis, a message, something. But what would be the point? What can he even say?

Young Harry Styles is a killer. Is that what he should put down? This Harry cannot exist. For all intents and purposes, this Harry Styles is gone; he’s been scrubbed clean out of the world.

When it comes down to it, Louis is a Tomlinson, and his life can never have room for someone like Harry. It can never be, and Louis can never know. He _won’t_ _ever_ know. Harry has vanished from his life; it's for the best.

He looks tenderly at Louis’ face, angelic and sated after life’s better pleasures. It would be so easy to kiss him again; it would take nothing. 

_Goodbye, my Louis._

Now Harry’s here, two bus rides later, in the dark heart of Gotham.

He’s sixteen. He’s left softness behind. He wants to be a street artist, or a waiter, or anything that will get him out of being a foster kid, anything to help him disappear.

But it's already dark, and he doesn't know where to go.

In a deserted alley, Harry finds a spot of cardboard behind a dumpster, and sets his backpack against the brick wall.

A skinny cat sneaks from behind the dumpster and takes off like a shadow, a tabby like the ones that stalk koi in Japanese paintings.

Cats can see in the dark. They negotiate around the shadows of the dead. Harry shivers. In his limber way, the cat will find his hidden perch, away from the thick obstacles of his childhood.

Harry’s about to sit down when he sees two men walking toward him.

“Hey there,” one of them says. He sounds friendly, but his eyes are not kind. He's shorter than Harry, and wearing a dirty beanie. Harry smells him before he can focus on him. He smells like garbage.

Harry says nothing. He picks up his backpack and holds it tight against his leg.

“You just get to the city, kid?” the taller one asks.

Harry looks from one of them to the other. He doesn't like how close they're standing near him.

One of them starts to circle behind him, and Harry makes a move to dash between them. The shorter one trips him. Harry stumbles and falls with hands forward on the dirty ground. His face lands in a puddle.

They scramble toward him and are almost on top of him.

The next second, Harry hears a _thunk!_ above him.

The one with the beanie clutches his chest, cries out feebly, and falls to the ground. Harry puts his hands over his head and keeps down. He barely has time to process what has happened when he heard an arrow fly through the air, and the other man falls with a _thud_.

After his heart starts beating again, Harry uncovers his head and looks up toward the direction of the arrows. Next to him, the two men aren't moving. Their chests don't rise.

He sees an hourglass silhouette against the dim glow of the streetlight. The person’s top is costumed with a tight, blood-red doublet or leotard, edged in black lace. The legs are in fishnet stockings and end in stiletto boots. One hand holds a large, recurve bow, with runes carved on the upper and lower limbs. The other is empty, poised and opened at her side. She stands in a striding position, the left leg in front. Harry can see the crests of arrows behind her neck.

“Thank… thank…” Harry stutters. His voice is a tiny frog.

The figure walks toward Harry. The clicks made by her sharp heels echo down the alley.

She stops in front of Harry. Although well-built, she is petite. The rippling muscles in her legs remind Harry of fish swimming under the ocean. A sleek, opaque, crimson eyepiece wraps around her eyes.

“Why are you here?” Her voice is smooth and purposeful, low, like a rope of silk.

“I don't have anywhere else to go,” Harry says honestly. “I have no one — not — nothing.”

She walks in a semi-circle around Harry, relaxing the hand with the bow. Her other hand is steady and open, poised to respond. She's sensing him acutely, taking in every movement.

Harry’s lips open, his heart’s beating hard.

“What's your name?”

“H — Harry.” Then he adds, “Styles.”

“You’re forgetting, Harry.” Her voice is directed somewhere above his head.

“Sorry?” He’s bewildered.

“You have _hope,_ ” she answers. “That’s something.”

“How… how do you… know? Who are you?”

“You’re a fighter, aren’t you?” She waits for Harry slowly to get up. Her voice is cool and slow, as if she's soothing a spooked animal. “I think so. You don’t surrender. You want to win.”

“Yes, I do,” Harry answers. He brushes himself off. He is taller than her, but feels much weaker, smaller. “Always.”

“You have debts to settle.”

Harry nods slowly.

The muscles around her eye sockets move, but they’re not directed toward Harry. Instead, her head is tilted, as if she’s listening intently.

She’s _blind,_ Harry realizes, with a start. She isn't really seeing through that eyepiece. She shot the arrows blind.

“Your bow,” Harry says. “How did you — ?”

“The arrows are tipped with a paralytic agent. A weapon is merely a means to an end,” she says, not really answering him. She comes closer. “But the real weapon is your mind, Harry. Want to find out what kind of weapon you have?”

Harry nods faster. Then he adds, awkwardly, “Yes.”

Without warning, the lady suddenly hurls the upper limb of her bow out toward Harry’s face. The action is lightning fast, brutally unfeeling. Reflexively, Harry’s hand shoots up to block the blow. The action arrests in midair. His forearm meets the bow with a dull _thwack!_

“You'll do,” the Cupid says.

  
•••

  
Niall Horan seems completely incongruous to the Blind Cupid’s operation. He dresses in button-downs and loafers. He graduated with honors from Gotham University, with degrees in biochemistry and math. He reads Nicholas Spark novels. He comes to work with a Hello Kitty lunch pail.

“How did she even find you?” Harry asks. “Did she order coffee from you at a Starbucks?”

“Get out of here, Harold.” Niall laughs. “I’m much darker than you think.” He speaks with a clipped Irish brogue. “I’m Unpredictable Niall.”

Harry chuckles.

They are in a large room, equal parts gym and storage space, illuminated by bright fluorescent lights overhead. Hanging on the walls are large recurve bows and compound bows, arrows of various lengths and tips, daggers and swords of all sizes, maces and chains.

Harry has just finished his hour of mixed boxing and aikido. He wipes the sweat from his face with a terry cloth towel, and picks up the chilled cucumber water on the table. On a whim, he throws in a sprig of mint.

“Let’s see ‘em, then,” Harry prompts Niall.

Lying on a large tarp before them is an array of objects best described as accessories one would bring to a steampunk murderers’ convention.

There is a rotating saw blade that fits onto an armored glove, which one can carry like a shield. Next to it lies daggers that fold into boots, and boots with knives in the heels. A leather pouch holds lock picks. A cute, motorized chainsaw has a geared handle. There are brass throwing stars fanned out like cards. A dozen beautiful, matte silver lipstick tubes are lined up in a row, with retractable, curved razor blades where the lipstick usually goes. Finally, in a corner of its own lies a long, tapered bullwhip, with a single diamond inlay at the end of the handle.

“I've tested them myself,” Niall says, “all of ‘em. Some feel more natural to use than others.”

“Natural, right.”

Harry picks up a razor blade lipstick.

“Talk about a cutting remark,” he says.

“You like that? Elegant, isn't it. Designed the casing myself.”

“Beautiful.” Harry turns the blade to see its glint.

“I thought you might like this,” Niall says, picking up the bullwhip. “Found it in Nepal. The leather is from yak calves. More durable than bear hide. But look how supple.” He hands the whip to Harry.

Harry puts the lipstick down and takes the whip in his hand. He feels how perfectly balanced the handle sits in his hand, like an extension from his wrist. A large diamond sparkles from the end of the handle.

He turns away from Niall and uncoils the whip. A light flick causes the whip to fly out elegantly, like a snake or a leaping panther.

Harry aims it toward the wall. The whip slashes the wall with a lightning crack, and flies back to Harry.

He’s _in love._

“I commissioned a dozen of ‘em.” Niall notices his smile. “They take a long time to make. Hand made, each one. The leather goes through six weeks of tanning. Hard to replace.”

“Nialler, you are the cat’s meow,” Harry compliments.

“Oh, before I forget,” Niall turns and walks to the corner of the room. He picks up what looks like a gallon of insecticide with a spray attachment, and a baton. “Got what you asked for.

“I'm surprised at you, Harold,” he says. “This is sort of… low tech. Beginner-level, like. I don't know why you don't go for something sexier.” He shakes his head, and gestures forlornly at the wall of weapons. “When you’ve got all this…”

Harry tips his head to the side, assessing the equipment and finding it incomplete.

“What about the ants? Are they here?”

“Coming by courier this afternoon,” Niall says. “From Texas. Are you sure you don't want me to come along, mate, as a back up?”

“Niall, come on.” Harry takes the gallon jug and the baton from Niall. “You’re not my mother. Stop your fussing.”

Niall chuckled uneasily. “I don't know, Harry. You scare me sometimes.”

“This?” Harry scrunches his mouth to ridicule any idea of risk. “Is nothing, just a kidnapping. I do this in my sleep.” He winks at Niall. “I bet even you could do it. Anyway, like I told you, it’s a personal thing I need to do. By myself.”

“I thought so,” Niall says, his eyebrows knitted with concern. “Hey, Harry. You know what the Cupid says.”

“What?”

Niall looks at him gravely. “ _Never make it personal._ ”

“Yeah, I know.” Harry returns the gaze with a blank expression. “Last time. I swear.”

  
•••

  
Richard McGee stands with his hands and feet bound tightly. He stares at the creature in front of him, pacing slowly back and forth. Sunlight is just creeping through the trees, above the gray horizon.

He was asleep when he was awakened with a gloved hand covering his mouth and a knife at his throat. That was an hour ago.

Now he’s here, in the woods, with this psychotic thing, this abomination, this — _man_ — pretending to be a _cat_.

“Richard,” the Cat admonishes, his voice raspy with amusement, “Richard, Richard. It doesn't feel great, does it? To be on the wrong end of punishment.”

“Wha — what?” he stammers. “Punishment for _what_?”

“I know! Seems so unfair.” The Cat stops and turns, one arm across his chest, holding a baton, and the other hand on his chin. “As if you did nothing wrong. As if you’re an innocent bystander. What kind of sadist does shit like that?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” McGee says flatly.

A hard laugh escapes from the Cat.

“If it happened to one child,” the Cat says, “it must have happened to dozens. Over and over. How many children did you cane, Richard, in your lifetime? Rough estimate. A hundred? Two?”

McGee’s face freezes. He pinches his lips shut. His eyes widen and cheeks turn ruddy.

“Week after week, year after year,” the Cat says. “The kids without parents, the throwaways. No one ever believed them.”

McGee bows his head. Behind his back, he tries to wiggle his wrists to see whether he can work the ties loose.

“You never see the scars, do you? The physical ones. Not to mention the ones that can’t be seen.” Pausing, the Cat squints at him, and then circles around to see what McGee’s doing.

“Oh, for God’s sakes, Richard. Must you be difficult?”

The Cat swings his baton and whacks McGee in his calves, hard. McGee drops down with a howl. His knees hit the ground and kick up a swirl of dirt. He continues babbling while the Cat watches. 

“I'm sorry,” McGee blubbers. “I didn’t — I only — punished those who were _truly bad_ , I swear. They needed someone to reign them in. I… I thought I was helping. I just wanted to guide them. I loved — ”

The Cat bangs McGee’s knees with the baton.

“You didn't _love,_ Richard,” he says with a quiet fury. “Don't make it worse for yourself.”

He gives two solid whacks to McGee’s bottom. McGee cries in pain.

“You never did it for _love,_ you fucking creep. It was always for _power._ Power over the powerless, isn’t that it? You say you didn't know. Of course you didn't; you barely investigated. Your mind was already made up, wasn't it?”

The Cat walks over to the gallon jug with the spray attachment and picks it up.

“Which one?” McGee asks hesitantly. “Which boy were you?”

The Cat smirks under his mask. “None of your _fucking_ business, Mr. McGee.”

McGee, blinking rapidly, sees a lanky boy with curls, mouth pinched shut against the cane’s blows, hand held out, stiff and bloody. The boy’s stuttered, muted cries echo into time’s silent chambers. 

“What are you going to do?” McGee pleads pitifully. “There must be another way, lad. I'm sure we can work something out.”

“There's a saying,” the Cat says, methodically uncapping the jug. “Revenge is a dish best served sweet. Ever heard of it?” He screws on the spray attachment.

“I thought it was — ”

The Cat shuts him up with a series of forceful squirts on his face, and then squirts a few more times on the ground, testing the equipment. McGee pinches his eyes shut and spits fiercely.

“What — ”

“Sweetness is as sweetness does,” the Cat says. “Let’s celebrate, Richard! It's happy hour, open bar night!”

He begins to spray Richard McGee from head to toe, drenching his scalp, coating his face and hands. The mixture has a sickeningly sweet, chemical, musky smell. McGee is blubbering, his face a sweaty, teary mess.

“It's just glucose,” the Cat says. “Simple sugar, in case you’ve forgotten your school lessons, Richard, mixed with a pheromone that triggers Texas fire ants to swarm.”

“Ants,” McGee repeats dumbly.

“The fire ant is a tempestuous creature, I’m afraid. They bite when they sense motion. They leave weeping pustules and some nasty, nasty scars. Almost as nasty as the ones you left.”

Once finished, the Cat sets down the jug. Then he picks up a shoebox with with a sealed hole on one edge, a few millimeters in diameter, and sets it in front of McGee’s chest, about ten inches away.

“They won't kill you, sweetheart. But they’ll leave a priceless memory. One you’ll cherish for life. _I_ will, anyway.”

The Cat peels back the seal.

Right away, a few rust-colored ants venture out, and meander in a zigzag line to McGee’s body. Others quickly follow.

“Oh, by the way, I’d work fast if I were you,” the Cat states casually. “You have about a minute.”

“Untie me!” McGee cries. “I didn't mean it. I can change!”

“Of course you can,” the Cat replies, smiling. “I have no doubt. I find stress to be extremely persuasive. You, of all people, know that — don't you?”

The first ant’s bite sinks into McGee’s quivering lip. His gasp triggers more bites, a chain reaction happening by the millisecond.

“You’re a better person now, I bet,” The Cat continues. “I want to _help you._ A hardened heart needs discipline to change.” The Cat pauses to watch. “I find that hypocrites have the hardest hearts, Mr. McGee. _Sir._ ”

He watches for a few more seconds as hundreds of ants travel up McGee’s torso, swarming onto his neck, around his chin, entering his nostrils and mouth. McGee’s pain is magnified by his attempts to control himself and not move. Already his lip is beefy red, a raw sliver of agony.

The Cat picks up the gallon jug and his baton, and ambles away. He twirls the baton in the air, doing quick, easy spins, and begins to whistle a show tune. Behind him, McGee’s hesitant, halting protests quickly escalate to terrified screams.

The Cat doesn’t look back. 

_Bill paid._

 

 

 

 

[Moodboard](https://13ways-of-looking.tumblr.com/post/166070304226/title-yellow-author-13ways-artist-twopoppies) for Tumblr


	4. Chapter 4

 

 _I came along_  
_I wrote a song for you_

 

  
A shiny, black Rolls Royce Phantom VII pulls up to the curb. Bright stadium lights reflect from its polished surfaces.

The valet opens the passenger door. A sleek, shapely leg steps out, and an electric blue Jimmy Choo stiletto sandal touches the ground.

The woman attached to that leg is ethereally beautiful. Her powder blue Valentino gown matches her shoes, and brings out the verdigris color of her deeply set eyes. Her copper-colored hair cascades in loose waves around her shoulders. A perfect shade of blush gives her an approachable elegance.

“Good evening, Mrs. Drost.” The valet extends his hand.

“Good evening,” she answers, her eyes sweeping the landscape. Her husband, Trenton Drost, circles around to take her arm. Behind him trail two bodyguards.

The red carpet lies before them, with ascending, carpeted steps into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The glitterati of Gotham are dressed to the nines, and photographers line up behind the velvet ropes, three deep, craning to be the first ones with photos. They shout to each new celebrity who walks past, like unruly children shouting at zoo animals.

“Marina! Over here!”

“Marina! Marina!”

“Mrs. Drost! This way!”

Drost escorts his wife to the red carpet, where celebrities and the city's elites stand elbow-to-elbow. The camera flashes create a strobe effect, making everyone seem as if they’re walking in stop motion.

Louis watches from the stage, a few stairs up from the red carpet, with his friend Zayn Malik. They are both in black tie.

Zayn sports a short, trimmed beard. His long dark hair falls to one side of his temple. He’s slowly sipping a martini, watching as glamorous couples drift by. His black Versace tuxedo is cut close to his waist, with a black satin cummerbund. Narrow pants accentuate his thin, lean physique. Although his expression is neutral, his eyes crinkle with amusement.

Louis is in black as well, in a double-breasted Saint Laurent silk jacket with an ivory square tucked into the breast pocket. He wears a black shirt and tie whose undulations shows off the swell of his chest. One hand holds a tall highball glass — whiskey punch with a lemon twist, over ice.

Louis trains his eyes on Marina Drost. The destruction of The LAIRE is on everyone’s minds. More than one editorial had noted Batman’s absence.

Some speculated that the fiasco was a trap for Batman from a mysterious challenger. Hundreds of people had witnessed the Bat signal being destroyed by fireworks — people from ten blocks away had seen it.

The intended meaning was unambiguous. Batman was unreliable.

Drost remains tight-lipped about the whole encounter, declining all media interviews. Rumor has it that an intruder had shown up at his hotel prior to the destruction, some creep dressed in a cat costume. Drost travels with bodyguards at all times now.

If he doesn't want attention, however, his wife is wearing exactly the wrong outfit.

The outstanding feature of Marina’s ensemble is an enormous sapphire gemstone, set with twenty-four carats of white diamonds on a delicate platinum chain. The necklace reflects the surrounding lights so brilliantly, it seems to be glowing from within.

“You’d almost think that they’re trying to bait someone,” Louis says.

“Hmm?” Zayn asks.

“The necklace that Marina Drost is wearing,” Louis says, tipping his highball glass in her direction. “Seems a bit rich, even for Drost.”

Zayn glances around the room. Sure enough, he spots poorly disguised security guards in shoddy evening wear, standing in the corners and along the periphery of the large space. A brief glance shows glum-faced men watching from the second-story windows.

“Lou,” Zayn says. His nod indicates the men to Louis. “Look at the guards. Not too smooth.”

Louis takes a deep breath and scans around the room. He checks on Drost’s security guards. They’re unfamiliar to him, not from the standard roster of Gotham retired police.

“You know Drost’s men, Zayn?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Never seen them before.”

Louis sees a tall, broad-shouldered man with an elegant neck and chestnut waves of hair make his way toward the Drosts. He's about the same age as Louis, in his early to mid 20’s. He seems focused on them, dodging other celebrities.

Louis wonders how he made it onto the red carpet. None of the photographers flagged him; he's obviously not a celebrity. Yet his good looks and confidence aren’t out of place with the actors and models in front of the cameras.

Louis watches him for a while. There is something familiar about him, the lanky, staccato motion of his legs, his inwardly pointing feet, the way he holds his arms to his sides.

Louis’s eyes travel down to the man’s hands. The pinky on his left hand is held apart from the other fingers. The sight triggers a memory for Louis, primal and far away, a mixture of warmth and tenderness that he doesn't want to believe. Louis strains to see his face, but it’s just too crowded.

Louis finishes his drink.

“Zayn,” he says, “I'm getting another drink. You want anything?”

Zayn shakes his head. “I'm good, Lou.”

Louis descends the stairs and heads toward Drost. The crowd has thickened, and Louis zigzags to get through the forest of tulle and chiffon, tuxedos and aperitifs.

Louis looks up from time to time to check on Drost’s blond pompadour, making sure he is still in sight, and Marina’s powder blue dress still next to him.

Just as he gets within shouting distance, a hand grabs Louis’ elbow and stops him.

“Mr. Tomlinson.”

Louis turns abruptly. He knows the voice. He looks up from the hand for confirmation.

“Commissioner Gordon.”

“Glad you could make it tonight,” Gordon says nervously. “Quite a number of guests cancelled. They all claimed to have other engagements, but this incident with The LAIRE has everyone spooked.”

Louis shakes Gordon’s hand, finding it firm but sweaty.

“What information do you have so far?” Louis asks.

“Well, we interviewed Drost,” Gordon says. “He was skittish as hell. He mentioned something about being held hostage, by a person dressed like a cat.”

“A cat burglar?” Louis asks, with amusement.

“No,” the Commissioner answers nervously. “Not a thief. At least, this person didn't take anything. It was like — a — a vendetta, a warning.”

“Revenge?”

“Not exactly. More like a statement of intent. A show of strength and defiance, against Gotham. Well, against someone, that's for sure.”

“Oh?”

The Commissioner wrinkles his face thoughtfully, gazing into Louis’s eyes.

“This Cat person. He mentioned Batman, by name.”

Louis’ lip twitches at this information. “Gotham’s best-known vigilante.”

“Oh yes,” the Commissioner continues, oblivious. “Definitely seemed like an intentional reference. The Cat came armed with lock picks, and drones, and a whip. It all sounds too fantastic to be real, too flamboyant and theatrical. It was for show, something to be remembered.”

“Did he mention whether this Cat was male or female? Describe the creature at all?”

The Commissioner massages the back of his neck with one hand.

“Drost isn't the most observant person,” he replies. “He thinks the Cat is male. About six foot tall, maybe taller. He’s dressed in some sort of black leather suit, and wears a mask.”

 _How kinky,_ Louis thinks. _Nicely done._

He chuckles. “A cat who blows up a fifty-story hotel as a warning? It sounds a bit melodramatic.”

The Commissioner frowns. “Isn’t it? I get a feeling, Mr. Tomlinson, that something unusual is afoot. We looked into the city’s usual gangs and criminals, but none seem to be connected to the episode at the LAIRE.”

“A man of mystery, then?”

“I feel as if we’re being set up, and the mention of Batman is curious, to say the least, but I just don’t see the long game.”

Louis strains to see Drost. His blond, permanently bonded hairs are nowhere to be found. Louis worries that he’s lost him.

“Excuse me, Commissioner,” he says. “I was on my way to refresh a drink. Would you mind?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Gordon replies. “No, of course, Mr. Tomlinson.”

He steps aside to let Louis pass, but Louis’ fear seems to have been confirmed. The Drosts have left their place on the red carpet. Louis turns his head to scan for them. His eyes search the periphery of the room, and then sets out on foot.  
  
Meanwhile, just inside the Museum, Marina Drost taps a waiter as he walks by with a tray of champagne. One of Drost’s body guards is a few steps away, standing impassively. A wire connects his earphone to his walkie talkie.

She takes two flutes of champagne and gulps from  
one of them, downing half of it at once.

“Not having fun?”

Marina spins around to see a young man in a black tux, with a white, ruffled tuxedo shirt. There are rings on each of his long, elegant fingers. His hair is in loose, full curls, tucked behind his ears. His eyes are luminescent, like gems — almost more beautiful than her own, sloe-shaped eyes.

“Do I know you?” Marina asks, skeptically.

“Edward Selley.” Edward extends his hand. “And you are —?”

She narrows her eyes. “You really don't know?”

Edward shakes his head and smiles charmingly. His face seems to radiate both curiosity and coyness. Deep dimples sink into his cheeks.

“I'm Marina Drost,” she says. “Trenton Drost’s wife.” She takes his hand. “You must be the only person in Gotham who doesn't know who I am.”

“I'm sure the loss is all mine,” Edward demurs.

Marina puts her empty champagne flute on the nearby table. “Tell me, Edward,” she exhales, waving her arm toward the party. “Do you like these things?”

Edward laughs gently. “They’re interesting social experiments, for sure,” he says. “The rich are like everyone else. Same fears, same insecurities. They just show them in different ways.”

“Same loneliness,” Marina says, glancing at him.

“Yeah,” Edward says. “True. Maybe especially so.”

Marina turns to look at him. “You know,” she says, “I don’t have any close friends, Edward, not truly… only ageless people I meet for soul-killing salads.”

Edward barks out a laugh. “Really. That's a lotta lettuce.”

Edward leans against the wall. His broad shoulders are curved inward and he clasps his hands in front of himself, so that he looks smaller and younger.

“You're very easy to talk to, Edward,” Marina says.

“Thanks,” Edward says. He runs a hand through his hair. Marina believes he might be blushing. At any rate, he seems charmingly flustered.

“What is it that you do?” she asks.

“A bit of this and a bit of that,” Edward answers. “Whatever it takes to get by.”

“Oh?” she answers. “Does it include chatting up rich men’s bored wives?”

Edward frowns. He straightens up, pulls down his tuxedo jacket, and clears his throat. His face is cast down with discomfort.

“Sorry,” he says. “I mean — I'm so sorry, Mrs. Drost. I didn’t intend to bother you. I’ll leave you alone now.”

“No,” Marina says. Her hand touches his gently, and curls around to hold it. “Don't go. And do call me Marina.”

Edward gives a conflicted, uncertain look.

“It's okay,” Marina says. “Come on. I like you, Edward Selley.” She links her arm through his. “You're not like everyone else here. You’re real.” She casts a backward glance toward her bodyguard, who has turned away from her momentarily. “Hey, Edward?”

“Yes, Mrs. — ” He shakes his head self-consciously, “I mean, Marina.”

“Let’s get out of here,” she says. “Go somewhere quieter where we can talk.”

“Okay,” Edward says. “Where shall we go?”

“Let’s just start walking,” she says. She pulls his elbow away from the wall and turns him herself.

She pulls him along, ducking behind taller people so as not to be seen. Marina snatches an opened bottle of Veuve Cliquot from the bar, and pushes Edward toward the exit.

They walk along the side of the building, unobserved, as glamorous latecomers pose for photos on the red carpet. The flashbulbs blind the scene every few seconds. Marina’s dress moves like a billowing cloud along the wall, an unknown, handsome young man on her arm. Later, although several people recall her dress, no one would remember their leaving the main floor.

  
•••

  
After twenty minutes, Louis doesn't just feel uneasy — his intuition tells him that the ball has started rolling down the slippery slope. He finally finds Drost, and unfortunately, it isn't difficult at all.

Drost, red-faced, is yelling at the top of his voice, like a senescent, truculent baby. His face is blotchy red, and his small fists shake invisible rattles above his head.

“Incompetent, the lot of you!” he shouts. “Why do I even pay you? She's wearing the sexiest dress in the room, and a fucking huge sapphire and diamonds — like, massive, huuuge — and you can't keep your eyes on her! Embarrassing!”

Drost’s personal assistant, a young and nervous-appearing woman, is trying to whisper in his ear to calm him down, but Drost is too far gone. The late hour, plus the drinks he's had, has loosened him beyond control. He attracts the paparazzi, who begin to crowd around, smelling a story.

“Mr. Drost!” one of them yells. “Is it true that your wife is missing? Along with her jewels?”

“Of course she’s not missing, you dolt!” Drost shouts. “We got separated because of these — incompetent knuckleheads.” He gestures haphazardly behind him. “She's probably just using the powder room or hobnobbing with top models…” He turns and shouts to his bodyguards, “Well? Why are you still here? Get a move on! Go find her!”

Louis shakes his head at the spectacle.

From behind him, Louis hears a familiar voice say, “That man is a lunatic, isn't he?”

Louis turns his head to find Zayn standing quietly beside him. They exchange knowing glances.

“Zayn, Marina Drost is missing.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty obvious,” Zayn says, nodding toward Drost. “Couldn’t miss it if I tried.”

“Have you let Liam know?” Louis asks.

“Your car is parked out back, behind the delivery entrance,” Zayn answers automatically. “The Batsuit’s inside. It's isolated back there. Shouldn't be hard to find a place to change.”

“Thanks, Z.” Louis grins.

“Next to the suit, you'll find a few extra things. I didn't know what you might need. One can never be too careful.”

“You’re like a guardian angel,” Louis smiles.

“In some ways,” Zayn says, “you’re the world’s most irritating child.”

Louis laughs. His adrenaline has been pumping since Drost started ranting.

“See you in a bit?”

“Be careful, Lou.” Zayn put his hand on Louis’ shoulder and draws him close. “You could be dealing with someone — unpredictable.”

“You underestimate me, Zaynie.” Louis winks. “I'm not the sanest person myself.”

Zayn pats him on the back. Louis gives Zayn a half smile and takes his leave.

_Time to catch a feral Cat._

  
•••

  
“Is it wrong,” Marina asks, “to stay with someone you don't love anymore?”

She passes the champagne bottle to Edward, who takes a swig. They are sitting on a hill above the Museum, leaning against a large sycamore tree. Far away from the gleaming lights below, they merge with the night’s shadows.

Marina feels scandalous sitting on the cool, damp ground, in her Valentino dress, her blue shoes lined up neatly next to her. There's something sweet and unreal in the contrast, the neon color of the shoes against the pebbled dirt on the ground.

“It's not wrong if you have good reason,” Edward says. “Do you?”

Marina thinks for a second.

“I used to,” she answers, “when the world was young, and I imagined I could change, or he could.”

Edward thinks for a minute. “Have you been married for a long time?”

“Too long,” she answers with a bitter laugh. “Frankly, I'm surprised I haven't been replaced. My forehead is showing wrinkles. Trophy wives are not supposed to age.”

“You shouldn't think that,” Edward says, passing the bottle back to her. “I'm sure you have many other talents.”

“Oh?” Marina laughs bitterly. “I used to. I was a bi-athlete, a cross country runner and a sharp shooter. I placed in the nationals in college.” She took a sip of champagne. “Now what am I? A warm body in an expensive dress. A buffoon’s arm candy on a Friday night.” She raises the champagne bottle, hesitates, but then takes another sip, leaning back against the tree. “Sometimes I wonder why I'm here at all.”

“You shouldn't say that,” Edward says, sympathetic. “Everyone feels lost sometimes.”

“Do they?” Marina gazed at him. “Do you, Edward?”

Marina sees Edward look away, his face suddenly sad and contemplative. He looks so young, she thinks. So very young and vulnerable.

“I have,” Edward says, softly. “Yeah. I’ve been lost before.” He looks down, wrings his hands together and says no more.

“I'm sorry,” Marina says. She puts her hand on his and gives it a gentle pat. “I'm sorry for whatever happened to you, Edward.”

“It's in the past.”

His voice is small and dry, slightly hard and cruel. Marina glances at him, surprised to hear this edge. It makes Edward sound like a different person. His jaw hardens, and then relaxes again as he turns back to her.

Edward reaches out to take the champagne from Marina. She gazes toward the distant lights, the murmuring of voices soft and indistinct, punctured at intervals with sharp laughter.

“What do you do, then?” she asks. “How do you do it? How do you put it behind you?”

Edward passes the champagne back to her. He watches her as she drinks.

“Everyone has their own way,” Edward says. “Some people bury it deep inside, and other people — well, they drink champagne, I suppose.” He laughs with her. “You're so much more than just your status, Marina. You’re good and you’re smart.”

“Ouch!” In mid-sip, Marina pushes the wine bottle away from her lips. “I think the bottle just cut my lip.” A few drops of blood stain the corner of her upper lip.

Edward widens his eyes, but tries not to stare. “Do you need a handkerchief, Marina?”

“Thank you, Edward.” She uses his pocket square to dab at her bleeding lip. She winces with pain, but it isn't a deep cut and quickly stops bleeding.

“I’m sure Mr. Drost feels a lot of love for you,” Edward continues. “He’s lucky to have you. Just promise me you’ll try to be happy. Promise you’ll never give up. There's much more to your life than being Mrs. Trenton Drost.”

“Yeah? You think so, Edward?”

“I'm certain of it. Life is unpredictable. You might have a lot more adventure ahead.”

Marina nods. She puts the handkerchief up to cover a yawn. She's suddenly so very tired. Usually champagne doesn’t have this effect on her. It must be this place, Edward’s voice, so soothing and gentle, so kind. Marina blinks once. Twice. A feeling of joy and love suffuses her being. She doesn’t realize it, but she’s smiling.

The distant lights blur together, and her vision begins to dim. Stars swim into her orbit. The ground shifts and she falls…

  
•••

  
“Are you lost?”

The Cat halts, hearing the low, commanding, masculine voice.

After deliberating for a millisecond, he hurls a razor-thin, five-pointed, titanium star in the direction of the voice.

Instead of the soft _thunk!_ of the star embedding in flesh, the Cat hears it clack to the ground. He twists around to see who has blocked it.

_Of course._ He has been expecting him, and now, pleasantly thrilling hackles rise on the back of Cat’s neck.

Batman is illuminated only by overhead lights, the curvature of his costume glinting darkly, the ears on his costume casting blunt shadows on the ground.

The Cat grins.

They are behind the Museum, near the rear entrance. Alone.

“Little Mouse.” The Cat circles around, teasing him. “It's about time you showed up.”

Batman’s not the towering monster the Cat expected. He’s compact, from his black mask down to his black tights and boots. The muscles in his arms and legs are taut but not large. His cape is matte black and not ostentatious. His hands are gloved, open and ready at his side.

“Do you always do the most obvious thing?” Batman asks in a clipped voice.

“Hmm?” The corner of the Cat’s mouth lifts in amusement.

“Come to a party to steal the jewelry.”

He shrugs. “So?”

“Predictable.”

The Cat laughs huskily. “Sweetheart, I never do things halfway. I’m here for the prize.”

The Cat is sleek and beautiful, like a model for a Renaissance sculpture. His shoulders are broad, his six-pack well-defined. Batman gazes up from his laced boots, to his muscular and lean legs, ending in triangular, slim hips. A small velvet pouch is tied around his waist, just big enough for coins — or a million-dollar sapphire and diamond necklace. Various hooks and straps are attached to his belt — as is a bullwhip. His hip dents point to his unmistakable manhood.

“Nice costume, by the way,” Batman nods.

“You too,” the Cat replies. “You look so delicious, Little Mouse, I could toy with you all night.”

“Hmm. I bet.”

Batman steps around the Cat. He can't help noticing that there's something familiar about him. Despite his sarcasm, the Cat has a vulnerable bravado about him, something pure and raw. A memory struggles to surface, but doesn't quite make it.

The Cat is prancing on his heels, obviously enjoying the show he's putting on for Batman.

Batman eyes the Cat, and then, like lightning, he pounces. He attacks hands first, throwing a long range jab. The Cat deftly blocks his fist and repels it away.

They both fall back, but Batman regains his balance, and swiftly attacks with a round kick to the abdomen. The kick is a move that usually takes opponents by surprise and knocks them down. So Batman is taken aback when the Cat anticipates this move, and backflips to move out of range. As he flips, he eyes Batman and seems to size up where he might land. His expression is a mixture of superb athleticism and supercilious contempt.

Batman has barely recovered when the Cat attacks him with a whip kick to his back. He falls forward, but rolls dexterously and rights himself, his fists in front.

“Not bad.” Batman’s breath is slightly knocked out of him. “You’re well-trained.”

“I could say the same about you,” the Cat replies, slightly panting. “You’d almost be pretty if you weren't so adorably amateur.”

“Ha!” Batman snarls. “Who's amateur?”

“The one who can't even catch a jewelry thief,” the Cat says. “Isn't that crime-fighting 101? Pretty basic, I’d think. Maybe you should go back to — “

Batman leaps forward, grabs the Cat by the upper arm, and twists it back behind him. The Cat struggles, but Batman’s hold is tight. The Cat stomps on Batman’s foot with one foot, but his boot is impervious.

Batman pushes the Cat roughly forward until he is against the Museum’s stone wall, his front pressed up to Cat’s back.

“Is that tight enough for you?” Batman whispers into the Cat’s ear. “You talk a big talk, Cat. Is this too amateur?” He hoists the Cat’s arm up to heighten the pain.

“But is it tight enough for _you?_ ” the Cat growls angrily. He arches his back and brushes his ass, firmly sculpted in leather, up against Batman’s groin. “Seems to me like you’re enjoying it a little too much, Little Mouse. You talk a good talk, too, but your body says something different. Am I wrong?”

The Cat sways his hips, his minimal contact just sensuous enough to be arousing. They both feel it.

Batman flushes deeply and backs away. The Cat takes the opportunity to break free. He spins around and knees Batman in the groin. As Batman stumbles, the Cat whip kicks him in the trunk, and Batman drops to his side, his arms curled, his body doubled over in pain.

The Cat quickly regains his balance and stands triumphantly, gazing down at Batman.

“ _Holy shattered illusions, Batman!_ I didn't expect it to be so easy.” He raises a hand to his chin, pretending to be shocked. “I’m disappointed. The great Batman! Protector of Gotham! The Legend! Down in the first round, after a little huff and puff, a bit of bump and grind, huh? — What a shame...” He stares at Batman, who is slowly rolling on his side, his mouth in a rigid grimace. “You don't last very long, do you? Six minutes, tops? We hardly even started. Welp, maybe next time, Little Mouse.”

The Cat turns around, and is about to leave, when his back is caught with a grappling dart, shot from a dart gun. The suction cup doesn’t stick, but the force of the attack is enough to knock him forward.

Batman is on his feet and silently rushing toward him.

The Cat reflexively flicks his bullwhip sideways. It flies with elegant menace to ensnare Batman, wrapping him around the middle. The Cat snatches the loose end of the whip with practiced ease and yanks Batman tightly to himself, then shoves Batman forcefully against the wall.

He hurls himself against Batman’s body, face to face, towering slightly over him. They are both chuffing, out of breath. A flush of heat rises between them. Batman’s ice blue eyes blink in surprise, unexpectedly close to the Cat’s sparkling green ones. The Cat quirks a smile, popping his dimples.

“Good boy,” he exhales, cocking his head. His breath tickles Batman’s lip. He leans into Batman, not without an easy, seductive weight. “You're really quite nice, aren't you?”

Batman narrows his eyes and gazes into the Cat’s lovely, terrible green eyes, the brilliant color flecked with a ring of amber. A flash of memory rises, advancing faster. Their proximity is so familiar, fraught with a memory of tenderness that threatens to break him.

The faded memories of a boyish smell, the familiar taste of pouty lips, and a summer sunset wash like an ocean wave onto the shores of Batman's mind. He blinks rapidly, trying to pin them down. The memories coalesce into a dream, a prayer, a person. The Cat’s voice recalls a certain sound — a censored, stuttered cry behind closed doors.

“You,” Batman stutters abruptly. “You’re...“

The Cat leans forward and sinks his teeth into Batman’s upper lip, biting it almost hard enough to draw blood. Batman draws back in pain, but the Cat holds his lip tightly, and then sucks it into his mouth slowly, the force of it like an erotic pull.

Batman tries to back away. The Cat grips the two ends of the whip and yanks him closer. Lacking the traction to resist, Batman is helplessly pressed against the Cat.

Finally, the Cat releases Batman’s lip. His mouth hovers just over Batman’s, aware of how his upper lip must be burning and starting to swell. The Cat licks a corner of his mouth pertly, and then traces the swelling lip with his tongue, licking more slowly, like a cheetah with a fresh kill. At this proximity, Batman can't help but inhale his scent, a sweet saltiness, of sweat and perfume, like jasmine.

For a second, Batman stares at the Cat’s face and tries to block out the tragic green of the Cat’s eyes. All he can see is a fierce courage, when he should really be seeing criminality. He tucks his chin and turns his head away.

His right hand struggles to reach his belt.

 _Thank God for Zayn,_ he thinks. _Thank God someone’s prepared to deal with this. Someone more rational, stronger than him._

He almost reaches the dagger, tucked into its sheath on his belt, when the Cat senses this motion and headbutts him.

Pain slams into in Batman’s head.

_Damn it. That’s going to be one hell of a headache._

The Cat leans on him hard. Batman’s eyes are closed, so he doesn’t see the Cat raise his hand until it’s on his cheek, tracing the exposed skin between his eyes and mouth. The motion is slow and sensual. It almost feels like tenderness.

“For a second-rate superhero, you really have some fucking fantastic cheekbones,” the Cat says. “All the more pity.”

Batman hears a click, and then feels a lancing pain tear down his cheek.

The hand is still close to his cheek, the retractable claws exposed like tiny swords from the ends of the fingers. Batman feels liquid dripping down his cheek.

_Blood._

_It doesn't matter who he might be,_ Batman thinks. _Do your job. He's killing you._

He twists his body sideways and shoves against the Cat, who’s still admiring his handiwork. The Cat is caught off-balance. His hands relax, and Batman slips from the whip. He breaks free and shoves the Cat away.

“Someone once told me,” Batman states, “that you shouldn't start what you can't finish.”

Batman can see that the Cat is startled. Batman watches him closely as he steps back. The Cat seems to be processing the quote in his mind.

“I always win,” the Cat answers, with slight hesitation. “Don't you know? You can't stop me.”

“Do you? Always win? At what cost?”

They watch each other intently, and Batman wonders whether the Cat knows — who Batman is, who they are to each other.

The corners of his mouth turning down, Cat doesn't show any signs of recognition. He is flippant, proud.

“It was fun,” the Cat says with indifference, turning to leave. “Catch you later, amateur. Maybe practice a little before the next time.”

Batman is about to give chase when something unexpected happens.

An enormous pink cloud bursts upward from the Museum grounds, on the other side of the building. It hangs above the building and spreads out like vaporous blood. Batman hears shocked, muted, confused cries from the attendees on the other side.

Several explosions follow, sounding like canons. Batman looks up to see bright flashes of light. Fireworks explode into the sky.

Two interlocking hearts shoot into the sky, in dark red and fluorescent pink. Then, as Batman grimly anticipates, an explosion unfurls gold fireworks in the shape of the Bat signal. A green arrow from the left side unfurls, piercing the signal and destroying it.

Batman quickly looks back down. The Cat has vanished.

He squints, assesses the situation, and runs toward the front of the Museum. As he gets closer, the pink cloud is thicker. There is an air of confusion and excitement. People run in every direction, some tripping on the ground, others yelling. Visibility is poor, but Batman sees people running into each other’s arms, some dropping to the ground, embracing each other, others kissing passionately, and still others frantically stripping off their clothes, clawing at their pants and underwear to remove them.

Batman feels a hand on his arm.

He turns to see Zayn, in a crouched position. Zayn yanks him down low.

Zayn looks at the wound on Batman’s face and winces. It looks as if he collided with a band of wild baboons: lips puffy, fresh, bleeding gash on the cheek. Zayn turns his gaze, and Batman follows.

“Over there.” Zayn gestures to the driveway at the Museum’s entrance. “Look.”

A long, elegant, blood-red Lamborghini is parked at the curb. A figure stands next to it, wearing a red leotard and fishnet stockings, a sheaf of arrows just visible behind her neck. A crimson eyepiece is wrapped around her eyes, and there's a red silk mask around her mouth. It is an odd look, as if her head were completely covered, but she remains aware. Her stance confident, she faces the scene with equanimity.

Batman has no doubt that she is the mastermind of this chaos, whoever she is.

“Gotta run, Zayn!” he shouts, getting ready to bolt. “I’ll see you later!”

“Don't do anything reckless!” Zayn shouts back, putting a hand on Batman’s arm.

“Me, reckless?” Batman’s grin is cut short by pain from the cut in his face. “When have you ever seen me reckless?”

In response, Zayn makes an uncomfortable face, scrunching his cheeks and eyes together. He gently taps Batman's cheek, near his bleeding cut. “Try to stay out of the path of wild animals, alright? I'll see you back at the Manor.”

Without another word, Batman ducks and runs toward the rear of the Museum. Waiting in the shadows is a hulking, black, jet-engined tank, the Batmobile.

Batman loves the cave-like feel of the Batmobile. His seat is custom-molded, courtesy of Zayn and Tomlinson Enterprises. It’s the only place where he truly feels at home.

He starts the motor and guns it forward, toward the Museum’s entrance. Just ahead, the Lambo has pulled away from the curb, and is speeding forward into the Gotham night.

Batman sets the tracer target on the Lambo and accelerates. He knows the Batmobile is just a bit slower but stronger, and he has a chance on Gotham's twisted, winding streets.

“Good evening, Batman,” Liam’s voice comes reassuringly over the intercom. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, you know,” Batman gleefully responds. “Came out to have a good time, feeling so attacked right now. How are you, Liam?”

“Don't get cocky, man,” Liam says. “That Lambo has fifty horsepower and a few torques on you.”

“Me?” Batman replies. “I'm the least cocky person ever.”

“Oh boy,” Liam sighs.

Batman’s getting closer, but he knows that the Lambo senses the follow. He doesn't know how, but it does, as if intuitively reading his mind. It’s taking maneuvers to outrun him.

They turn sharply down several city blocks, running red lights and hitting curbs. The Batmobile’s reinforced chassis can withstand machine gun fire, and Batman knows it can hold up.

They speed past the vast complex of the Gotham Mercy General Hospital, with high chimney stacks blowing out steam, its impersonal, concrete and glass buildings. The Lamborghini’s red color reflects back in the large glass panels along the ground.

“The Gardens,” Liam directs him. “Routing you now.”

The Lambo turns sharply toward the Giordano Botanical Gardens. For a moment, Batman thinks it may enter the Garden to take cover within its forested grounds, but it is headed northwest, toward the gray double suspension of the Arkham Bridge.

The avenue toward the bridge grows wider. The Lambo is faster, but Batman has it in sight. He pushes the dash to add the first jet-engine boost.

The Batmobile roars like a predator in pursuit.

“Locking you to target, Batman,” Liam announces.

The Lamborghini shuts off its lights, and flies along the empty avenue, sleek, fleeting, and blind. Batman has it marked, locked to the tracker on his dashboard. The darkness is irrelevant. He concentrates on the blood-red car ahead.

Suddenly, from a corner of the night, a large, black motorcycle zooms into view. It soars with audacity and flamboyance over the hood of the Batmobile, scraping over the paint and gauging a dent. Batman hears the distressing shatter of glass and metal over his head.

“What the fuck?” Batman shouts.

“What’s happening?” Liam’s voice sounds fast and panicked. “The camera just cracked. I can't see a thing. Batman? Talk to me!”

The bike is a cyberpunk nightmare — the oversized wheels with gold hubs, brass tacks along the wheel covers and seat, exposed pistons in gleaming black and gold, and handlebars like expansive black wings. But its melodramatic appearance doesn't compare to the rider.

A figure clad in black leather — wearing goggles between his pointed ears — has both hands on the motorcycle's handlebar, and his heeled, laced boots on the pedals. Batman catches his sword-like eyebrows over large, piercing green eyes, which seem to wink at him.

 _Unbelievable._ Batman thinks. _He really fucking gets around._

“It's him,” Batman says. “Goddamn it.”

“Who?” Liam asks from the dash, urgently. “Who? Who?”

Batman brakes hard, and turns to swerve. He tries to right the car as the red Lambo zooms into the horizon, lost to pursuit. As he rapidly corrects the steering wheel, the Cat’s motorcycle zooms in front of him, zigzagging, impeding his progress. To no avail, Batman tries to negotiate the Batmobile around this nuisance.

He watches in alarm as the Cat turns and aims a gun directly at the Batmobile’s windshield. The Cat’s green eyes are cold and deadly.

Batman brakes sharply, which is when he sees a motorized dart shoot toward the windshield, directly at his face. He brakes hard, raising both hands and ducking under the dash. His car spins 180 degrees.

When he rights himself, both the Lamborghini and the motorcycle have gone.

He sits — shocked, disappointed at himself, shaking breathlessly. The Batmobile has careened up the curb and sits askew, its side slammed into a tilted light pole.

He notices that the dart has surgically and firmly lodged itself into the windshield, causing a spidered fracture to crack along the bulletproof glass. The aim is straight on; the dart has penetrated within a millimeter of going completely through. Attached to it is a rolled message.

Batman cracks his door open, shoving it free of the dents, and reluctantly exits the Batmobile. With a tremor, he pulls the dart out, unrolling the thin, linen fabric to reveal the written words. The message is short, written in dripping red ink.

 

 

 **_Aveugle par amour_  **  
**_Welcome to the Dominion of Love_ **

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 _Turn into_  
_Something beautiful_

 

 

  
Harry has been sitting in the dark for a while, his skin chilled and damp. The ocean has become louder and closer, with the tide slowly rolling in.

The cave’s entrance is illuminated only by a ghostly crescent moon. Harry closes his eyes and tries to relax, letting his other senses calculate the cave’s dimensions. Sounds reverberate from the craggy surfaces surrounding him. His nose fills with smells of the ocean and the stagnant cave. The muted roars of the tides lie outside the cave entrance, each advancing roar multiplying his discomfort.

He’s dry, but won't be for long.

The Cupid’s beach house is merely a fifteen-minute walk away. She’s there now, doing her martial arts and yoga, and then she will prepare dinner. Once the tide comes in, she will come get Harry.

 _She will come,_ Harry reminds himself. She has never broken a promise. She will come. He forces himself not to think of the distance between here and there, the long, dry stretch of sand, the warm incandescent lights inside the house, the feeling of control.

A creature flies over head with leathery flapping — a cave bat. Harry tries to ignore the bat, instead concentrating on the lightness of his mind, on being present and attentive. He inhales slowly, and counts ten slow beats to let his breaths out.

But bats are markers of the night. They roll out when the tides roll in.

He feels the first cold wave lapping at his thighs: the ocean has arrived. Hands shaking, Harry forces himself to stay still, concentrating on slowing down his breathing and forcing his eyes to stay shut. He feels the cave’s dimensions slowly distorting, contracting and expanding. His center of gravity shifts, his body tilting sideways and his chest squeezed by an invisible force. His heart is beating faster, threatening to bound out of his body and leave him behind.

Harry initiates the counter-maneuvers he has been practicing. He tries to picture a golden glow inside his heart, warming from its center, enveloping him and protecting him from the creeping wetness.

_It's in your mind. Focus, Harry._

_There is no love or hate,_ the Cupid says. _There's only objective and method. The body is a vehicle, and the mind a weapon. Both are allies to tame the heart, the unreliable creature that tricks one into foolish expectations._

Only the heart fears. Only the heart imagines. Only the heart hopes for the unexpected. Only the heart seduces with the promise of untenable love.

_The body is a vehicle, and the mind a weapon._

_You're a weapon,_ Harry reminds himself. _An elite weapon in training. You don't succumb. You don't panic. It's only a couple inches of water. Calm down._

Yet the water seems to penetrate into his bones, snaking through the pores of his skin into the very darkness of his soul. In ten minutes, the water has risen past his thighs. Harry’s body is submerged from the waist down.

_Where is the Cupid? Surely she's on her way._

Harry rubs his fingers together for warmth. His eyes crack open, checking the crevices and reflections in the cave walls all around. A stream of bats fly out of the cave above his head. He senses their tiny bodies and hears their shadows, zooming into the night sky. The cave is alive with their high-pitched squeals and the sinister susurrus of flowing water.

The water has risen to just above his navel. His belly feels cold, clammy, nauseous. Harry fights every instinct to stand up and bolt. He looks down at the dark water, its invisibility making it even more menacing and fearful. Everything in his body is telling him to fight and run.

Sensing something splash under the water, Harry’s hand lashes out to grab it. But whatever it is has gone, zigzagged away in the night.

Harry’s breathing has become more rapid and irregular, despite knowing he must slow down or he will go into full-blown panic. He clamps down his jaw and unconsciously grinds his teeth. The cold water brings the entire ocean into Harry’s body, submerges him in its cruelty, imprisons him in its enormity. His lungs feel heavy and wet, and his heart is an anchor sinking him to the ocean’s depths.

_Where is she? Goddamn it._

The water has almost reached his chin. As his hands float to the surface, Harry struggles to stay seated in the water. He feels cold, disembodied, unreal, like he’s drowning, even if his head is above the waterline. Despite the darkness of the cave, Harry sees sparks of blue in his peripheral vision, and he's lightheaded.

_Objective. The objective. Focus on the objective. The objective, which is the focus, for which the body is a mere weapon, a weapon, a weap..._

When the water touches his lower lip, Harry bolts upright. His vision momentarily goes dark, but his training and impeccable physical condition help him adapt immediately. He scrambles to his feet, and kicks through the water, turning toward the cave entrance, using every sense to navigate out. When he runs clear of the water, he stumbles and collapses on the dry sand. His heart hammers and his chest hurts from breathing so hard. His eyes close to the darkness, and he is overwhelmed by shame.

As the wind churns the ocean, waves crash loudly against the shore. Harry sees and hears nothing else, only the enormous ocean.

Eventually, he opens his eyes. The beach is barely illuminated, as if he’s in a spiritual world. No one else is around. The sand stretches away into the horizon, with murky darkness where the Cupid’s cottage would be. Of course she wouldn't have turned on lights yet, since she needs no light to work. Even now, Harry thinks, she is placidly setting out two bowls, two plates, silverware. Her discipline is superhuman.

She was testing him. And he failed.

A frustrated howl escapes from Harry. Hanging in the empty air, the sound is ugly and broken, barely human.

The Cupid was teaching him to extinguish every fear, and along with fear, every indulgence of emotion, every irrational quickening to human feeling.

Harry willingly traded his old life for this new religion — a philosophy of mind over matter, method over love. Discipline and trust are comforting in themselves.

But Harry’s failing, because he needs more. At times like this, Harry wants the reassurance of human touch. He knows he shouldn't, but the need comes from deep within, and he can't help it.

_Is the Cupid wrong? Can he extinguish it — not only the fear, but the love?_

In the darkness, a distant, golden glow appears. The Cupid has turned on the house lights for him. Harry’s joy at seeing the light breaks him, just a little bit more.

His mind flicks back to a time of warmly exchanged glances and affectionate touches, the beginnings of a romance. Harry tries to put these thoughts out of his mind, but when he feels vulnerable, a wound teases open and the hurting starts.

He wonders whether Louis thinks about him at all. It has been more than two years — two years with no contact. Harry has changed drastically. He's no longer a child — taller, leaner, stronger, and colder, a fast and deadly animal.

What was he supposed to say to Louis, anyway? _I tried to kill my foster dad._ How was he supposed to explain that?

In spite of his new allegiances, however, Harry cannot extinguish the last spark of Louis, hidden away in the lonely center of his heart.

Harry had been something society wanted to throw away, or so he thought. Cupid had rescued and protected him, honed and sharpened him to a fine peak, so that he became an artist at the top of a dark game.

Louis isn't part of this world, and can never be.

Harry has no choice, he tells himself. He left the system, went underground, and entered an unimaginable life. He can never go back, not after everything he has seen and done.

_There's no going back now. This is your new life._

_Objectives. Weapons._

_Not delusions._

  
_•••_

 

Harry feels the intentional, hard shove on his shoulder as surely as he knows how to breathe. He doesn't need to turn around to know the person has an ugly smirk on his face.

At the start of the school year, some popular kid always feels the need to initiate a pissing contest with Harry, the token foster child in the class.

Maybe it’s a way of marking territory, trying to be the alpha dog. Maybe they like an easy target. Maybe they hate his personality or the way he dresses. Maybe they know the foster kid can't fight back as hard as he wants to, because he can't afford to get in trouble.

Or, maybe, it’s a quick and dirty way to pick a fight with Louis Tomlinson, the richest kid in class, because everyone in school knows how to rile Louis up.

Harry hates it. He knows why they pick on him — because he wears second-hand clothes, because he has school supplies that are donated and don't match, because he never has a ride home, because the court has to sign his permission slips. Because no one comes to parent-teacher conferences. Because his mother, the only person who ever loved him, is dead.

He hates being a target and hates being a foster kid, and he hates the constant need to fight, but above all, he hates that people think he's friends with Louis because Louis is a Tomlinson.

Harry and Louis are — Harry and Louis. Louis isn't a Tomlinson to Harry, and his wealth has nothing to do with their friendship. Harry couldn't care less about Louis’ family business, which his grandfather runs, and which has nothing to do with his Louis.

They're best friends because Louis makes him laugh. Harry is a deep thinker who tells Louis everything, and in turn Louis treats him like a human being, listens and asks good questions and cares about what he says. They've been best friends forever, and they don’t need to explain why. Louis is his.

Lately, though, Harry has started to feel something different for Louis. It’s scary yet exciting, and makes him a little lightheaded and tongue-tied.

Harry doesn't know what to do with this feeling, except to keep it secret. He catches himself looking at Louis’ bright blue eyes and pale pink lips a moment too long. When they arm wrestle, he wants Louis to hold his hand a little longer than they're supposed to. He beams with Louis’ praises, even though he knows how it must look — how everyone must notice him flirting with Louis, his stupidly hopeful and eager expression. But he can't help it, and he doesn't care. He feels loved. He feels good. Louis always makes him feel good.

Which is why he has to keep the fighting a secret. He can't have Louis defending him like a boyfriend. In fact, Harry feels uncomfortable even thinking those words. If Louis doesn't feel the same way, or if he thinks that liking Harry is wrong, it would be way worse than if they hadn't become friends. Harry wouldn't be able to bear it. He'd rather have Louis’ friendship than nothing at all. He’d rather go on like this — loving him in a one-sided way, never saying a word — than risk losing him.

Which is why, right after school, Harry waits until the hallways are almost empty to start walking toward a rear exit. Out of nowhere, he feels a familiar hand on his shoulder.

“Where’re you headed, Harry?”

Harry freezes. He had slipped into a bathroom as soon as the bell rang so he wouldn't bump into Louis. He had assumed Louis’ chauffeur would have collected him by now.

Harry turns around. “Lou,” he says. “Where's your car?”

“I asked you first,” Louis says. He stares straight into Harry’s eyes, seeing through him.

“Nowhere special,” Harry lies, trying to be casual and glancing away. “Thought I'd take the long way home today.”

“Something wrong at home?”

“No,” Harry answers, not meeting Louis’ eyes. “Nope. Just felt like it.”

“C’mon,” Louis says, cheerfully, “I’ll give you a ride then. I have nothing after school today.”

“Lou, it's okay. I — ”

“Be honest, Harry,” Louis puts his hand around Harry’s shoulder, his eyes knowing. “Tell me. Who’re you fighting today?”

Harry guiltily looks down. After a pause, he says, “I got this, Louis. You can't do anything about it.” He squirms out of Louis' hold. “If not today, it's going to be another day. You know that. There's always another fight.”

Louis stares him down relentlessly. “C’mon. Who is it?”

Harry chews his lower lip, and then replies, “Not telling. Forget about it. I'm not getting you in trouble.”

Louis laughs at his serious expression, and then says softly, “What, are you gonna keep fighting forever?”

Harry looks away, shrugging his shoulders. “I don't have a choice, do I?”

“You do,” Louis says. “Of course you do. You can say no. You've got me.”

“To fight for me?” Harry asks. “No thanks. That's not how the world works. The world cares about you, Lou, not me.” He glances at Louis’ look of protest, and refutes it gently. “It doesn't give a shit about people like me. Never will. You can't help me. I have to do it myself. Sorry.”

Louis tries to take Harry’s arm to move him, but he has planted his feet firmly in the ground and won't budge.

“Harry, please,” Louis says. “Don't be like this. Let's just go.”

“I’m not going, Lou. I just told you why. Do you have a better idea?”

Louis thinks for a moment, and then says, “No, I don't. But I just don't think fighting is the best way, Harry. And besides, I don't want to see you get hurt.”

“Then don't. Don't see it. Don't get involved.” Harry quickly turns and tries to pull away, but Louis grabs him by the arm.

“I can't do that,” Louis says. “You know why, don't you?”

“You have a crazy hero complex,” Harry takes a hold of his hand and jokes, laughing. “Right? You, Louis Tomlinson, must save every pathetic creature you see. You're weird like that.”

“No.” Louis is quiet. He looks away, but continues to hold Harry’s arm. “No, not exactly.”

Harry’s heart skips a beat and he feels his mouth dry up like a desert. Suddenly the contact between them feels too warm and too close. He drops his hand like it's burning.

“Then I don't — I mean, I don't know,” Harry stammers.

“Because,” Louis leans in and whispers to Harry, “I think I _like_ you, Harry. I mean, I _like_ like you, as more than a friend. Do you know what I mean?”

Louis stops and swallows, watching Harry tentatively.

Hearing these words, Harry has the merest start of a smile on his face, his eyes wide and cheeks rosy, but he can’t think of a thing to say.

After waiting for a long minute, Louis drops Harry’s hand, and starts awkwardly backing away.

“Um, I'm sorry,” Louis says. “Really, really sorry. Forget I said anything. I shouldn't have told you. Harry, please, go home. Don't go to the fight — ”

Harry picks Louis’ hand up and tugs Louis toward himself. Louis is paralyzed with uncertainty as Harry slowly closes both arms around his waist and embraces him. They’re best friends. They hug all the time, so it's no big deal.

But not like _this._ Not with Harry’s arms softly scooping up every one of Louis’ fallen feelings like flower petals, and giving them back to Louis, one petal at a time.

“Me too,” Harry whispers, craning his head toward Louis’ ear. “I like you like that, Lou. I _do_ know what you mean.”

He feels Louis’ body quicken and flush, and a tiny quake of his head as his comprehension sinks in. His body leans ever so lightly into Harry’s, and then he puts both arms around Harry’s shoulders and presses his face in. It feels warm and soft.

“We’re good?”

“Yes, Lou,” Harry answers. “We’re good.”

Because they're still on school grounds, Louis proceeds to pat Harry on the back heartily, and breaks them apart.

“Come on, Harry,” he says, “I'll give you a ride home.”

“Okay,” Harry answers. “Sure. As soon as I take care of something. Just wait for me here.”

Louis purses his lips and frowns. Harry is really going through with it, the little shit. Even after all that talk about their feelings.

“Alright, then,” Louis claps his hand on Harry’s back, directing them down the hallway. “What are we still standing around for? Let’s go.”

“Lou, I told you, you don't need to — ”

Louis shushes him. “If you pick a fight with Harry Styles,” he says, “you’re fighting Louis Tomlinson. We’re a team.”

Harry breaks out in his widest grin, his mouth nearly splitting his face in half. Cuts and bruises aside, fighting with Louis was lovely, really.

“Lou —”

“No, no,” Louis says. “Don't you get sappy on me, Harry Styles. Not now. We need to be men of fighting form.”

“Lou, I —” Harry starts, then stammers. “I mean, I just want to say — thanks.”

“For?”

“Sticking with me.”

“Always,” Louis says, with a manic grin. “It's what we do, isn't it? You can’t get rid of me, Harry. Come on, then. Let’s let loose the dogs of war!”

  
•••

  
The team has recently returned from Thailand, where it relieved multimillionaire Nijapoem Kilanchadra of a few dozen carats of heirloom emeralds.

The Cupid gets off the plane disguised as an old, blind lady. Niall is waiting for her at the airport exit, dressed like a middle-aged man with a graying moustache, a tweed cap, and a cardigan sweater. No one pays them any attention as Niall escorts the old blind lady out of the international terminal, chuckling fondly as if greeting a relative on a rare visit.

Once Niall opens the car door for her, the Cupid settles into the backseat and switches her large sunglasses for the crimson visor. They are sitting in a gray Honda Civic with tinted windows, the most boring of all suburban commuters, a dime-a-dozen car of no distinction whatsoever.

“Nicely done, boys,” the Cupid says. “Everything okay after leaving Bangkok?”

“Yes, Cupid,” Harry says from the driver’s seat. His hair is greased and brushed back, and he’s wearing a loose print shirt over a white undershirt and black plastic sunglasses, so he resembles an unassuming driver for two older people. “The goods have been stowed, and the transfer is expected next week.”

“Reliable buyers?”

“The same crew as with the South African diamonds,” Niall says. “At any rate, transfer will take place in New York, like before.”

The Cupid’s lips curl in a half-smile. “Congratulations,” she says. “Well done, boys.”

Harry pulls the car away from the curb and joins the traffic. The Cupid takes off her wig. “Now I want to talk to you about something closer to home.”

It is just past noon. The highway traffic is light on the way to Cupid’s hideout, in the heart of Gotham’s industrial center.

“Gotham,” the Cupid says. Her head turns toward the car window and her fingers touch lightly, as if she could sense the grimy city.

Harry turns the car into a deserted street with empty shells of buildings. Traffic lights hang uselessly. The litter of abandoned buildings is punctuated only by large, bold, angry graffiti. An occasional car speeds through the street.

“The city of dead souls,” the Cupid states, “of waste and greed. The city of dull, self-centered men erecting systems for their own benefit, while the rest sleep.”

They reach a multistoried, white building, set slightly back from the street. A motorized garage door around the back of the building slowly clacks open. Harry steers the car to the very end of the garage, where it is so dim that there's nothing but darkness.

They sit, waiting for the Cupid’s cue.

“Gotham needs passion, boys,” the Cupid says cryptically. “It needs excitement, chaos. It needs us.”

From her travel bag, she extracts a vermilion velvet pouch, about the size of her hand, and removes from it a small glass vial, containing a swirling, viscous, deeply fuchsia liquid, closed with a steel cap and sealed with a layer of blood-red wax.

“I think I found just the thing in Thailand’s jungles,” she continues. “An aphrodisiac, used for centuries. Thought it was interesting enough, but it needs a few tweaks. Niall, you up for a challenge?”

Niall’s eyes crinkle merrily. “Guess I could give it a shot.”

Harry glances into the rearview mirror and sees the Cupid’s cool, imperturbable demeanor.

“Cupid,” he asks, “what's your plan?”

“Boys, the city is full of boring, rich, old men,” she says, “benefiting from systems they've rigged for themselves, and a law enforcement that protects them. I think it's time for a woman’s touch, don't you?”

Harry nods. Presumably the Cupid’s plan has to do with the pink substance in her bottle, but his role is still unclear.

“Why should the city be enjoyable only for the powerful few?” she asks. “Why not a little enjoyment for everyone? Why not a _lot_ of enjoyment for us?

“Only one person stands in our way,” the Cupid continues. “Someone with a hero complex, who doesn't know he's being used. Someone who can't help but respond to every cry for help.”

Harry knows who she means, but to be fair, it’s no secret. All of Gotham knows.

“Batman,” he answers.

“A creature who needs to be taught a lesson,” the Cupid states. “A pest who has outlived our amusement — an obstacle.”

Harry absorbs this thought, and then asks, “Do we know who Batman is?”

“Not yet,” the Cupid answers. “But it's easy enough to summon him; he's as straight as an arrow, as predictable as the tides.”

Harry winces at the mention of the ocean.

“He's your project, Harry,” the Cupid says. “The perfect prey for a curious Cat.” She waits, sensing his reaction. Harry breathes slowly and calmly, willing his pulse to slow. “You up for it?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry answers, keeping his voice even. “Always ready for a hunt.”

“He's smart,” the Cupid says, “our Batman. I suspect he’s a person with means and influence, someone powerful in the city. But he's not invincible.”

“Oh?”

“No,” the Cupid answers. “His weakness is that he feels deeply. He cares. He has passion, which is admirable in its own way. Sadly for Batman, this time he’s fighting for the wrong side.”

Harry takes this in. The Cupid is dissecting Batman like a specimen on the table, one vulnerability at a time.

“You know what to do, Harry?” the Cupid asks. “Passion is foolish in its own way.” She glances at Harry, quietly gauging his response. “It's no match for discipline and focus.”

“Of course,” Harry replies. “I'll take care of it.”

“Excellent.” She opens the car door and steps out. She is no longer an old lady in baggy clothing, but the lethal Cupid, who believes in defending herself, in taking what she wants, in discipline, willpower, and controlled chaos, and above all, in loyalty.

An elevator door opens before them. Its glow beckons to them.

“To the future,” the Cupid says.

  
•••

 

Harry’s running ahead, his feet skipping irregularly down the hill, the south garden on his right side and the woods on his left. His laughter trails behind him like a chain of vanishing jewels.

Louis is chasing him, just behind. They've just come from school, and Harry’s jaw stings from the solid hit he got earlier. It's going to bruise, and his foster father will see, and he’s already dreading the consequences.

But for now, he's with Louis. They gave as good as they got at the fight, and the feeling of happiness is bubbling over any pain he’s feeling on his face. Louis’ right fist is swollen at the knuckles; it’s starting to become stiff and achy. The sun is just beginning to set, its pink and peach glow making everything seem golden.

Harry runs to a large sycamore tree by the brook, and turns around with his back against it. Louis catches up to him to put both hands on either side of his chest, the two of them breathing fast and laughing. They're in the back of the Tomlinson properties, with the woods extending back for several acres. It is isolated and quiet.

Louis places his hand on Harry’s chest, which rises and falls like a bird. Harry raises his hand to clasp Louis’ swollen knuckles, and laces his fingers through. Their faces are chilly from running, but their hands are warm, and Harry feels the _boom boom boom_ of Louis’ heartbeat in his palm.

“Harry, I'm serious,” Louis says. “We can't keep fighting people. You’ll get in trouble.”

“So?”

“ _So!_ So? Won't something bad happen?”

Harry thinks about his foster father, the stale smell of vodka under his breath, the cold tub, the hand pulling his hair, the water suffocating him.

“I don't care,” he says, brave and defiant. “I can take care of myself.”

“Harry,” Louis brings his face close to Harry’s, “ _I care._ I worry. I don't want you to — ”

Harry leans slightly forward and catches Louis’ lips with his own, a light touch that pulls in just the top rim of his upper lip. Louis’ eyes open in surprise, but then he leans into the kiss, unintentionally sucking on Harry’s lip, which makes them both break out laughing. Their faces part as they giggle in embarrassment, holding onto each other for support. After a moment, they try again, their bodies drifting together, their faces angling slightly so their lips fit just so. The second time their lips touch, the contact is perfect in every way.

Louis’ hands rest on Harry’s shoulders, and Harry places his on Louis’ waist.

They kiss each other sweetly, gently, Louis’ thinner lips against Harry’s full, responsive ones.

When they break, Harry says, “You have a tiny waist, Louis.”

“What!”

“Look.” Harry spreads his hands out and wraps around Louis’ waist. “They go almost all the way around.”

“Our first kiss,” Louis says, “and this is what you’re thinking. I swear to God, Harry.”

Harry nuzzles his nose. “Don't be mad. I kind of like it. You're cute.”

“I'm not cute!” Louis protests. “I'm not. Your hands are just abnormally massive,” Louis states, twisting his waist. “You weird mutant.” He secretly loves being trapped in Harry’s hands, being held by two palms that that can scoop him up entirely.

“Well, I like it,” Harry says, his eyes twinkling. “I can hold you still and you can never leave.”

“I never will,” Louis says. “You know that, right?” He leans in and kisses Harry again, rubbing their noses together while Harry holds him captive.

Harry had imagined what it might feel like to kiss Louis, but this was sweeter and nicer than he could ever have thought. It was the kind of kiss where his body vibrated with actual moons and stars.

“Mm. This is very nice, Lou,” Harry murmurs.

“It's not bad.” Louis smiles. “If every fight ended with kisses, people might fight a lot less.”

“Or a lot more,” Harry says. They look at each other and both start giggling again, their heads bumping into each other. Harry notices the crinkles by Louis’ eyes when he laughs, on the sides and under his eyes. His lashes cast long shadows from the sun, like a camel in the desert, he thinks.

Harry touches the side of Louis’ face and sighs. “I have to go.”

“Why so early? Can't you call home?”

“Lou, you don't know,” Harry starts, and then stops. He can't explain the anger and shame he feels, the nausea of anticipation for what is to come. “I gotta go.”

Louis takes his hand and squeezes it. He runs his thumb over the thin, raised scars in Harry’s palm, and wishes he could flatten them all. Louis remembers the day when Harry got his scars. He never had the chance to explore them so closely and intimately before. Now he doesn't have to pretend to arm wrestle Harry anymore. He can study the scars at leisure, and bring his hand close, to kiss them away, even if it takes a lifetime of kissing.

“Harry,” Louis says, raising this hand and placing it on his cheek, “I’m here, you know?” Harry looks at him, and then looks down quickly, not wanting any sadness. “If you need me, I'm right here.”

Louis rests his head against Harry’s and leans his body in lightly, still holding Harry’s hands. Harry says nothing, but he knows that Louis knows.

They don't need words.

“Come back soon, okay?” Louis says softly. “I miss you already.”

Harry turns his head and kisses Louis’ sun-flecked hair. He smells like the grass and trees, like dirt and sweat. If Harry could bottle Louis’ smell and carry it with him, he would.

“I miss you too, Boo.”

“So much,” Louis says, holding him tighter.

Harry’s hands grasp the fabric of Louis’ shirt and holds him fast. Louis’ body feels alive and vulnerable, his soul seeping through to envelope Harry like a cape. Harry’s legs feel weak, even though he's still taller than Louis. He presses his face into Louis’s hair, inhaling him.

“Don't worry. I'll be back,” he whispers into Louis’ ear, from the heart of his soul to Louis’.

“Promise?”

Harry kisses the side of his head, catching Louis’ hair in his lips. Overwhelmed by feelings, Louis turns his head and presses a kiss to Harry’s lips, without inhibition or boundaries. Harry cups the back of Louis’ head as they kiss, cradling him. He tastes Louis’ salty skin and the sweetness of his breath.

“Always. For you.”

 

 

 

 

[Moodboard](https://13ways-of-looking.tumblr.com/post/166070304226/title-yellow-author-13ways-artist-twopoppies) for Tumblr


	6. Chapter 6

 

“I really wish you wouldn't keep getting into these scuffles,” Liam says, with consternation.

It is the morning after the museum gala. Liam and Louis sit in the study, facing each other. A tray with gauze and various solutions rests on the desk. Louis woke up late. As Liam works on him, Louis sits impatiently in his white cotton pajamas, printed with tiny bees, tapping his fingers on the desk.

Liam dips a cotton gauze pad in hydrogen peroxide and cleans the blood from Louis’ cheek. Louis winces with discomfort, gripping the edge of the table to stay still.

“Is it deep enough for stitches, Li?”

“Not this time, no,” Liam answers. “But it will leave a scar.” He sighs and dabs. “Louis William Tomlinson, Gotham’s most eligible bachelor and sole owner of Tomlinson Enterprises, caught in an alley cat fight. How are we supposed to explain this?”

“Put it up to rough sex, maybe?” Louis jokes. His blue eyes glint merrily, even as he winces.

“Ha! You wish it was rough sex!” Liam exclaims. He stops what he's doing and stares at Louis. “If only you could go out on a normal date, like a normal human being. No — no, no, I am being serious.” Liam waves his hand over Louis’ mouth, which has opened to argue with him. “When was the last time you did something fun, for yourself? You're obsessed with protecting Gotham, Lou. Or rather, you're obsessed with punishing those who hurt Gotham. You can't go after every single criminal, you know. It's not healthy.”

“I _am_ normal,” Louis says. “I'm a _normal_ vigilante with a _normal_ allotment of high tech toys, and a _normal_ level of thirst for justice.”

“Yeah, right,” Liam replies, “ _You_ , normal. You can tell yourself whatever you want, Louis. Chasing people in a bat costume, in a million-dollar car. Mm-hmm.” Liam shakes his head in exasperation.

Louis sniffs out a laugh. Liam is nothing if not earnest. Louis’ eyes look down, bored and fidgety.

“Hey, are we done?”

“You really don't care what I say, do you?” Liam asks.

“Liam, I know you mean well,” Louis says. “And I know you think it's impractical. I just have to do what I have to do. It’s got nothing to do with practicality.”

Liam finishes cleaning and applies antibiotic ointment to the wound. The edges are sharp, red, raw.

“You stubborn man. This is all I can do for now,” he says. “Try not to get it wet for a couple of days, okay? And for the love of God, try avoiding things that might kill you.”

Louis smiles, his cut crinkling with the movement, eyes pinching in pain.

“You worry too much,” he says. “C’mon, I'll make you a cup of tea.”

Liam shakes his head again. This is the Louis he knows and loves, for better or worse.

They walk into the cavernous kitchen, built for serving dozens of guests at Tomlinson Manor. Over the years, Liam has gradually modernized the Manor to accommodate their tastes and needs. For instance, a hot water spigot has been installed in the kitchen that can dispense water at 85 degrees Celsius at all times, so that Louis can make tea at the touch of a button.

He rinses out the antique porcelain English teapot in hot water, and then measures tea and water. Liam has arranged for the tea to be express-delivered monthly from the plantations in India, Sri Lanka, and Kenya, to allow Louis the freedom to make his own, fresh Yorkshire blend.

“Commissioner Gordon has called for the Special Crimes Unit to investigate the attack last night,” Liam says. “He believes it to be related to what happened at the LAIRE.”

“ _Does he,_ now? What a brilliant observer of the obvious!” Louis smiles. “What evidence does he have?”

Louis uses his phone’s stopwatch to time the steeping of the tea. Liam brings out the tray with cups, teaspoons, and saucers, and then retrieves milk from the refrigerator.

“Eyewitnesses report the same fireworks at both places, interlocking hearts with an arrow going through the — ” Liam clears his throat. He hesitatingly asks, “Ehm… did you happen to see?”

Louis sees his worried look. “Oh for God’s sake, Liam. My feelings aren't hurt by some fireworks.”

“Yeah, well, ‘course,” Liam replies quickly. “I know that. It wasn't the real Bat signal anyway, just fireworks used to mock you. But it does seem — well, _targeted,_ somehow.”

“Targeted at Batman?”

Liam nods. “Batman is the protector of Gotham,” he says. “They know how GCPD calls you. That's your signal, isn't it? They’re taunting you.”

Louis adds milk to his heated cup, and then pours in the tea. He inhales the fragrance of the dark, richly roasted leaves. He takes a small, tentative sip. It instantly brings warmth and calm.

“We have to answer them, then,” Louis says.

“It's a trap, Louis,” Liam says. “It doesn't feel right. A criminal of this caliber doesn't act so indirectly. Why go to the LAIRE? Why stage a robbery? A luxury romance hotel and an expensive necklace can't be what they’re after.”

Louis considers this information. They both sit silently, the steam curling from their cups.

“What about Marina Drost?” Louis asks.

Liam nods. “She’s safe. She was curled under a tree, asleep, on the hill above the Museum. Her bloodwork is in the lab now, going through the standard toxicology screens, but the initial panel — ”

“ — came back negative, I bet,” Louis finishes for him.

Liam nods. He stirs his tea nervously. “Not a thing wrong with her, except for a tiny cut on her lip, of no consequence. She recalls nothing, not how she got there, not whom she was with. It's as if her memory’s been wiped away.”

“She was unharmed?”

“Not a scratch,” Liam says. He can't help but steal a glance at the cut on Louis’ face. “In fact, her shoes were folded neatly next to her, as if she’d fallen asleep at a picnic.”

 _She was with someone she trusted,_ Louis thinks.

“Are there surveillance photos?”

“Hmm. Funny you should ask that,” Liam replies. He stands up and drains the rest of his tea. “Photos came through this morning from GCPD headquarters. Zayn’s got them. Shall we?”

They rise and walk toward the back of the house, into the small, negligible sitting room near the entrance to the garage. It’s windowless and cozy, decorated only with a down-stuffed armchair, a side table, and a small landscape painting. Liam raises the painting to press a button. The wall near the chair retracts, exposing stairs going downward.

They descend into a large space, as big as an airplane hangar. One side ot the space is filled with high-definition screens, both large and small. Some of these are security monitors that scour every inch of the Manor’s grounds. Five large, high-definition monitors hang in sequence on the walls. On two of them are prototypes of Batmobiles, both the exterior and interior. Other monitors show graphic data and mathematical formulas.

The Batmobile itself is parked in the center of the space, its body dusty from last night’s adventures. Zayn will have to work on it later.

Along another wall is a bank of glass cylinders, each containing a Batsuit. The suits hang on mannequin torsos with Louis’ exact dimensions.

Liam and Louis approach behind Zayn. He sits in front of three desktop computer screens, his eyes bright and alert, flipping through security photos.

“Anything interesting?” Louis asks. Zayn turns around.

“Oh, hey. Look at these. Front of the Museum, Red Carpet, curb, sides,” Zayn indicates on the screens. “I tapped into GCPD’s servers and downloaded over a thousand images this morning, most of them from the Museum’s security cameras, plus a few from the photographers there — the papped shots of the beautiful people, you know? According to the database, GCPD has image-matched and I.D.’d most of the subjects.”

“ _Most_ of the subjects?” Louis asks.

“Hmm?” Zayn turns to look at them. “Oh yeah, they're still working on a few. Interesting that you should ask, though. Come here, look at this.”

He pulls up a photo showing the side of the museum. As expected, most people are crowded on the brightly illuminated Red Carpet, posing, mingling, drinking. In one corner of the photo, however, is a one-of-a-kind couture Valentino dress, in powder blue. Only the back of the dress is dimly visible.

“Can you enlarge that, Zayn?” Louis asks, pointing to the area of the image.

Zayn, knowing exactly what Louis is seeing, focuses on and magnifies the area in question.

“Is that Marina Drost?” Liam asks, recognizing her figure.

“Leaving the Red Carpet,” Zayn says. “Time stamp shows thirty-three minutes before the explosion.”

“Who’s that with her?” Liam asks.

Zayn zooms in, and then uses the software’s hyperfocus technology to create a high quality image. A man’s back is shown next to Marina Drost. He has a full head of dark, wavy hair, and is wearing a black tuxedo. He has broad shoulders and lanky, lean legs. His head is turned slightly toward Marina Drost, who leans into his side.

“Are there any other images of them?” Louis asks.

“Not together,” Zayn says. “But I was able to get our visual recognition software to isolate his tuxedo.”

“Incredible,” Liam says. “How is it not the same as every other black tux?”

Zayn doesn’t answer, but uses his finger to tap through a few of the hundreds of images on the computer in front of him. Finally, he isolates three photos.

They show a handsome, dark-haired man, standing amidst the crowd on the Red Carpet. The first shows a profile of his face, one hand in a trouser pocket, and the other raising a glass of water to his mouth. The second is of his back, again, as he heads toward the Drosts. In the third photo, he stands slightly behind Trenton Drost, who has his left hand up and his mouth open with a blustery, buffoonish expression. The man stands behind Drost and to one side, almost as if he is photobombing Drost.

The man’s gaze has fallen unmistakably on Marina’s neck, at the base of her throat, where the gems rested.

“You’re a genius, Zayn,” Liam says.

“Aw, shucks,” Zayn says, affecting modesty. “I try.”

Louis stares at the photograph, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He is almost certain he knows who that man is: the large, intense, curious green eyes; the full, pink lips; the slash of eyebrow like an artist’s savage brush work; the strong jawline ending in an angular chin.

With some trepidation, Louis asks, “D’you have a name?”

  
Zayn chuckles. “Knew you’d ask.” He follows with a sigh. “We have a registered name, which is almost certainly not his real name.”

“What is it?”

“Edward Selley,” Zayn announces.

Zayn glances at Louis with curiosity as he exhales perceptibly. “You know him, Lou?”

“No,” Louis answers quickly. “No, nope, I don't.”

Louis’ face relaxes visibly, his mouth slacking with a slight smile in one corner, brows widening with relief. Zayn doesn't break eye contact, but his forehead wrinkles with thought.

He adds, “The registered address is a little funny, too.”

Liam and Louis stare back at him, uncomprehending.

Impatiently, Zayn elaborates, “Edward Selley, whose listed address on the guest list is 928 Fairstone Way, Gotham City.” He gazes meaningfully at his friends, expecting them to get it this time. Then he repeats, with increasing exasperation, “Fairstone Way. Fairstone Way, guys. C’mon!”

Liam and Louis frown at each other, failing to understand what Zayn is trying to hint at.

Zayn tips his chin up at them, tired of waiting. “Seriously! You don't recognize it? There is no residence at 928 Fairstone Way.” He pulls up a map of Gotham on the computer. The graphics light up, displaying one block at a time on the monitor. “Fairstone Way is the road that goes from the city reservoir — here — toward Gotham Beach. It ends at the Gotham Boardwalk, literally in the ocean. 928 Fairstone Way is a hot dog stand on the Boardwalk.” He zooms in on the street image of a brightly colored shack.

The cartoonish modesty of the shack seems to mock and taunt them.

“Boys, he’s having one on us, this Edward Selley,” Zayn concludes.

“It’s a fake address!” Liam finally exclaims.

Zayn nods. “It is. It's definitely not a place of residence, that's for sure. There are five Edward Selleys within a three-hundred-mile radius of Gotham. I’ve checked them all out. None resembles this man.”

They silently and individually contemplate the information. Louis’ heart is hammering crazily in his chest. He might have felt a slight reassurance when Zayn had said Edward’s name, but now that it was clear that Edward Selley was a pseudonym, Louis doesn't want to think about his suspicions.

After all, it has been nine years since Harry left, nine years since Louis last laid eyes, lips, hands, _anything_ — on Harry. Who knows what Harry looks like now, or what he is doing? Edward’s strong resemblance to Harry could just be a coincidence.

For one thing, Edward acts nothing like Harry. Edward is sly, deceptive, immoral. If he is the Cat, then he is cruel and violent as well, and he has hurt Louis without hesitation — knocked him down, bit him, roped him in, enthralled him utterly and made him bleed, a most formidable, violent, criminal opponent. It’s improbable, isn't it? He simply couldn't be… could he?

Harry’s not the only man with green eyes in the world, Louis tells himself. Not the only one with curls, not the only one whose long trunk folds just so, his body invoking a mixture of painful memories and tenderness.

Still, Louis remembers the visceral feeling of _rightness_ when he had stood face to face with the Cat, the exact proportions of their heights, the feeling of the Cat’s lips hovering over his, the sweetness of his breath and the soft scent of jasmine, all seared into his memories as clear as the day he met Harry. He doesn't want to be swayed by imagination, doesn’t want to overthink it, but he also can't get rid of the nagging feeling of déjà vu, that somewhere, somehow, they have been together, in those positions, with exactly the same feelings of longing before. Well, the same longing, minus the pain and the blood.

Louis can't unsee the memory of young Harry’s long tendrils cascading down his neck, the way the soft curls slip through his fingers, the safety he felt with Harry’s hands wrapped around his waist.

He can't unfeel Harry’s soft kisses, the way his nose bumped into Louis’ and the giggles they shared, the feeling of complete and utter happiness when it was just Harry and Louis, Louis and Harry, in the woods, under the trees, in love.

Louis can't unhear Harry’s voice telling him that he would be back, that he belonged with Louis, and promised to return to him, always. Of course they were young, but Louis believed Harry’s words as strongly, as faithfully as he would have believed a magic spell.

What they said had the power of honesty; what they said was a talisman, would be there for their protection, would keep their love safe, always.

Louis had believed Harry with a fervent, unshakable faith.

Then one day, in eleventh grade, Harry didn't show up to class, and that was that.

No word. No note, no text, no letter.

Louis didn’t ask anyone what happened to him. He didn’t know whom to ask. He didn’t even know whether it was appropriate to ask. Harry had no siblings, no contacts. It was as if a part of Louis died suddenly, without any warning.

He was shattered. Harry had passed out of his life, into the void, had vanished without even saying goodbye, the same way that his parents had vanished, the same way that his grandfather would. Everyone he ever loved slipped away when he wasn’t paying attention. But this cut — seemingly intentional — felt the deepest. Louis couldn't even begin to know how to grieve.

Every night, for years, Louis cursed Harry for leaving. Louis wanted someone to tell him that Harry was okay. He wanted someone to reassure him that he, Louis Tomlinson, would eventually be okay. Night after night, he lay awake thinking about Harry, loving him and worrying about him, until eventually Louis gave up.

He went to university. Harry became a surreal memory from his childhood, a beautiful, permanent, painful scar in his heart. Louis hasn't thought about Harry in a long time, but the wound of Harry ran deep within him, and had never completely disappeared.

If Harry is the Cat, does he know Batman’s secret identity? Is he thinking the same thing as Louis right now?

Zayn’s voice interrupts these thoughts. “The pink cloud we saw last night, Louis? I’ve isolated a sample from the grounds.”

He walks over to a chemistry set-up of flasks, tubes, and liquids churning on a laboratory table.

“The gas contained a neurotoxin — metabolized by the body and meant to disappear within twenty-four hours. By that time, it’s too late for the victims. I think a version of this might have been used on Marina Drost, and was definitely released to the crowd last night.”

Louis shakes out of his reveries. He checks out the opaque liquid bubbling in the closed flasks, the pink smoke whirling above the milky mixture.

Zayn lifts the stopper on the flask. He takes a thin, long glass pipette, and draws up a tiny pink droplet. He opens the top of a glass tank which contains a small white mouse, and lets the drop fall in.

They watch as the mouse begins scrambling around the tank in a delirium, scuttling to the corner where there was a small rubber toy. The mouse jumps on it and starts humping it furiously. The creature’s sexual act is unmistakable. Thirty seconds later, it spasms to a stop and passes out, unconscious.

“It's not dead,” Zayn comments. “It's just in a state of hyperstimulation . When it comes to, it will have forgotten all about it. Probably.”

“Zayn,” Louis asks.

“Yeah?”

“Is this what happened to people last night?”

“In a way,” Zayn says. “People and mice react differently to chemicals. But in this case, it's a toxin that has similar effects in both.”

“You said it was a neurotoxin. But people last night were downright — ” Louis hesitates. The situation had been chaotic, and maybe he had misread it.

“Horny?” Zayn laughs. “You’re right, Lou; they definitely were. Just like our little mouse friend.”

He leads them back to the computers. His fingers flip to some more photos on the monitors. There were photos of people kissing and grabbing body parts, and others passed out, undressed, on the ground, their hands on their crotches. “I think it’s a selective neurotoxin. It affects each person differently, but mainly at the erotic centers. It makes the victims lose inhibition over their sexual desires.”

Liam laughs raucously. “You guys saw that? Unbelievable! How is _that_ even a weapon?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Liam, Liam, Liam. If you could stop thinking like an oversexed puppy for a second.” Liam looks mildly scandalized. “The victims become unaware. Everything gets blocked out except their sexual urge. You can imagine how that might affect the police department, or the government.”

“ _Amor caecus est,_ ” Louis thinks out loud.

“Love is blind?” Liam says. “Latin.” 

“Exactly,” Zayn answers. They solemnly ponder Zayn’s discovery, watching the pink liquid bubble and swirl in the small glass flask. In its tank, the mouse is heaving its chest up and down, dreaming of mouse orgies.

“Hey, Zayn, have you — ”

“Yeah, Louis, I know. I’m working on it,” Zayn answers, anticipating him. “I’ve sent the extract to the best biochemists at Tomlinson Enterprises. We have to find out how it works first, and then we can start thinking about an antidote.”

Liam says, “How much time will that take?”

Zayn shrugs. “Depends on the complexity. We can compare it to our arsenal of neurotoxins, Li, but you know, we don’t have antidotes for all the neurotoxins, not even the really old ones.” He gives Liam and Louis a mischievous look. “Anyway. You guys ready to see some cool toys?”

Louis wearily nods. “Sure.”

They walk down a few steps from the bank of monitors, toward the wall of costumes. Zayn stops in front of a glass case and presses a remote. The glass retracts, showing the prototype Batsuit.

Zayn use the remote to control the mannequin underneath, which twists its head in every direction.

“Whoa,” Liam says. “That thing is _freaking me out,_ Zayn. Stop that.”

“Tessellated Kevlar,” Zayn answers. “It’s a breathable Gortex-Kevlar composite for the hood. Bullet-resistant to most semi-automatic weapons, yet still allows the head to turn without cramping.”

“Always a positive, Z,” Louis says, deadpan. “I hate a crampy head.”

Zayn glances over and smirks.

He makes the mannequin turn around.

“Cape with ferromagnetic deflection capabilities, with up to two Teslas of force,” he says. “When it’s on, it will help to deflect magnetic objects. This was a hard one. We didn’t want it to be on all the time, because of electrocution concerns — ”

“Oh, good thinking!” Liam says.

“ — near high voltage items. You can set off some implantable objects this way, too. Wouldn’t want to have paper clips and staplers flying at you.”

“I love the office-boy look,” Louis says, jokingly, “but it does take away Batman’s coolness cachet.”

Zayn continues, “I’ve installed attachments for your grappling gun and pneumatic mangler. And oh, before I forget.”

He approaches the right side of the suit, fussing with something strapped to the belt, with two criss-crossed, black Gortex bands holding it in place.

“Grenade?” Liam asks hopefully.

“I’m guessing GPS tracker,” Louis says, “or Taser.”

“Nope,” Zayn says. He unhooks one of the bands and slips out a delicate white tea cup with a brass handle. Within the cup is a homemade, gourmet sachet of Yorkshire tea blend. “In case of an afternoon tea emergency.”

Liam scoffs. “You incorporated a steampunk teacup into the Batsuit? Are you insane?”

Louis tosses his head back to laugh heartily. “I love it, Zayn. One can never be too prepared, right?”

“We have to be civilized, Liam,” Zayn says, indignant. “Otherwise, what is even the point?” He pulls Liam’s head into a headlock, and kisses the top of his hair. Liam struggles against him, gently pushing him away.

Meanwhile, Louis thinks about the man in the black tuxedo, who lives in a hot dog stand.

If _that’s_ not an invitation, he doesn’t know what is.

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Gotham Boardwalk lies on the far east side of the city, bound on the north by the shipping lanes of Gotham Harbor, and to the south by marinas, mooring sailboats and yachts. On the Monday morning after the museum gala, the Boardwalk is nearly empty. Only a few couples linger along the windy walkway. Even the seagulls are screeching elsewhere.

Louis casually walks down the Boardwalk, his hands in his trouser pockets. His hoodie is pulled up over his head, and he hasn’t shaved. His appearance gives him a scruffy, impromptu disguise. No one needs to know that Louis Tomlinson is out and about.

Fairstone Way, the main strip of the Boardwalk, has a wide sidewalk that faces the ocean. Merchants range from large convenience stores that sell the usual beach souvenirs — T-shirts, mugs, towels, sandals, sunscreen, beer and other beverages — to tiny boutiques that sell arts and crafts. Here and there, small shacks pop up: a taco place here, a hair-braiding shop there.

Louis pauses at a jewelry shop, pretending to pick through braided nautical bracelets, all the while scanning the numbers on the buildings until he nears number 928. He exchanges a few words of pleasantries with the merchant, and buys two bracelets. Then he locates the hotdog stand he came for.

Louis has been in more dangerous situations. Nevertheless, he steels himself — for anything to happen. He’s not sure how he’ll feel if he sees… Edward.

Therefore, Louis feels both relieved and disappointed when he doesn’t recognize the man behind the counter. This guy has coarse, sandy-colored hair and wears glasses. He is looking down at something beneath the counter — playing with a computer, maybe? Or a phone.

“Hi,” Louis says.The man looks up. “Not many customers today, huh?”

The man gives Louis a quick once over. “Oh, hey there! Yeah, Monday morning, you know. What can I get for ya?”

He speaks with a lilting, Irish accent, and wears a yellow, button-down, short-sleeve shirt with a plastic name tag that says _NIALL._

“Um,” Louis looks at the menu posted on the board to the side of the counter. There are exactly five items: hotdog, french fries, chocolate milkshake, root beer, and lemonade. “Guess I’ll have a hotdog and a root beer.”

“Sure thing. Coming right up.” Niall turns around to grab a bun and insert a hotdog from the warmer. He hands that over to Louis. “That’ll be $4.50.”

Louis hands him money and gets his change back, while Niall turns around to get his drink.

“Say,” Louis says, “has business gone down recently?”

Niall considers. “Hmm, can’t say that I’ve noticed. Why?”

“Well, since the attack on The LAIRE,” Louis clarifies. “And then what happened at the Met gala the other night.”

“Oh, yeah! That was something else, wasn’t it?” Niall says, handing over the drink. “They say it’s the work of the Cupid.”

“The Cupid?”

“The Blind Cupid,” he explains. “That’s what they’re calling her, I guess. She leaves a calling card, is what I’ve heard.”

“So they think it’s a woman?”

“That’s the word on the street.” Niall’s face is blank and innocent, not giving anything away. He points to the side of the counter. “You can help yourself to the condiments, if you want.”

“Thanks,” Louis says. He waits for Niall to explain some more, but he remains quiet. “Out of curiosity, why do you think the attacks are happening?”

“She’s just taking the piss out of the city, I reckon. Maybe it’s all in good fun.” Niall wipes down the counter with a cloth. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says. “Doesn’t seem like fun to me, knocking down a skyscraper, does it?” Niall shrugs and makes a I-don’t-know-mate face. “But I try to avoid weird games and antics, stuff to attract attention. Generally, I’m a shy person. I like to keep to myself.”

“Do ya?” Niall says, smiling. “Me too. I mind my own business. No use invitin’ trouble.” He studies Louis’ face, then gestures to his wound, “Hey, looks like a nasty cut you’ve got there.”

Louis’ head darts up to look at Niall. Niall’s voice stays casual, but Louis can’t help thinking that there was a challenging note in his words.

“Ran into a door,” Louis says, watching him carefully.

“Ouch! Sharp door, was it?” Niall winks.

Louis nods, narrowing his eyes slightly. Niall merely straightens out the condiments in the shelf with an insouciant air.

“Anything else I can get for you?” he asks.

Louis raises the hotdog. “No, I'm good. Thanks for the dog, man. Have a nice day.”

“Ay, you too.” Niall turns back to the counter. He picks up a paperback book and starts reading it.

Louis walks a little ways down the street, and then chucks the hotdog and drink into a trash bin. He feels both relieved and disappointed not to have seen Edward.

He wonders whether his reasoning could be wrong, and whether the misleading address isn't a clue after all. Did he misinterpret? Edward may have given the address randomly, because it led nowhere. Maybe it was just a dead end.

No, it doesn't make sense to Louis.The Cupid is meticulous, but also dramatic, theatrical. She leaves no detail unattended. She wants to be discovered. She advertises. She broadcasts. Nothing has happened by chance.

What if the registration isn't the work of the Blind Cupid?

_What if it’s just Harry?_

Louis stares into the foreground, lost in his thoughts. He's just about to take off when he hears a raspy, low-pitched male voice.

“Nice day.”

Louis startles, and tries not to turn too quickly. His eyes dart to take on the speaker.

He’s wearing a kelly green T-shirt and blue jeans. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s looking up at the sky. Louis sees the broad outline of his shoulders, the shadows tracing out the ropy muscles in his upper arms, the sharply angled jaw, the pink slash of his mouth.

He’s the man Louis has come to find. He’s been waiting for Louis, that much was certain. It’s Edward Selley.

“It is lovely,” Louis answers, keeping his voice calm.

“I always think beautiful days are wasted, don’t you?” Edward says sweetly. “So many people don’t take advantage of them.” He watches Louis intently, his eyes saying something more than his words, but it is beyond Louis’ comprehension.

“True,” Louis says.

Something about his voice immediately triggers Louis’ wariness. He’s heard this distinctive, gravelly voice before, both in the distant past (he thinks), and very recently. It scrapes over his ears like gravel on skin.

“I just got to the city,” Edward says. “This Boardwalk is seriously gorgeous. It baffles me how people aren’t taking advantage of it all the time.”

Louis looks at the man’s radiant, joyful face, staring at the ocean. It’s Harry’s face, Louis thinks, only older and leaner, but he shows no signs of recognizing Louis at all. His silhouette is the exact height and build of the Cat, as is his distinctive voice. Louis is sure they are the same person, but he needs more proof.

“Maybe they don’t want to come out here alone,” Louis says. “Maybe they're waiting on a friend.”

Edward turns toward Louis and smiles. Louis is struck by his radiant beauty. “I’m Edward, by the way.”

“And I’m Louis.” He shakes Edward’s hand. “I’m sorry for staring,” he says, “but you look so familiar. Have we ever met?”

Edward looks away quickly, turns his lips down, and shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I would have remembered.”

“Oh?”

“Your eyes,” Edward looks back and says, shyly. “I would have remembered those blue eyes. They're captivating.”

Louis looks down. Despite himself, his mind rattles for a second.

“You’re a nice-looking guy yourself,” Louis says slowly.

Edward appears surprised. He smiles and looks away, an expression of real modesty and happiness. When he turns back, he reaches over and brushes his fingers on Louis’ cheek. His fingers graze near the edge of the cut, the pressure light and delicate.

“What happened there?”

Louis reflexively jerks away, his guard up.

“It was an accident,” Louis says. “It’s nothing serious.”

“It looks painful.” Edward drops his hand. His face expresses genuine concern.

“It was a stupid mistake,” Louis says. “I got into something I shouldn’t have. Physically I’m fine; emotionally, I’m bruised.”

Edward honks out a laugh. “That’s funny.” He smiles again, deepening his dimples. “Was it a fight or something?”

Louis knows these dimples; there couldn’t be two people in the world with dimples like these, with eyes like those. Louis saw them in his mind, for years. He knows them in his dreams.

“A minor disagreement,” Louis says. “I'm a klutz, that's all. I get into the dumbest scrapes.”

“Well, it's a shame to ruin such a nice face,” Edward replies, brushing Louis’ cheek. “I hope it doesn't hurt too much.”

Louis watches him for any signs of lying. Either he's a consummate professional and an incredible actor, or he's not the Cat. Either way, Louis is intrigued.

“Nah, nothing time can't fix,” Louis laughs. “It doesn't bother me that much.”

“You're brave,” Edward says, turning his face down. “I'm squeamish about this stuff. Ugh, blood makes me sick to my stomach.” He put his hand over his face, embarrassed. “Anyway, it was really great to meet you, Louis. Have a nice day.”

He turns and starts to walk away.

“Edward!” Louis calls after him. “Do you have a number? I mean, it would be a shame if a nice day came along, and…”

“... you have no one to enjoy it with?” Edward says. “It would be a damn shame.” He digs in his trouser pocket and comes out with a pen. He pulls Louis’ hand from his side, and turns the palm side up. “You can get me here,” he says. “I don’t always answer, but you can leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

It is an out-of-state number, most likely to a disposable phone.

“See you then,” Edward grins.

For the first time in many years, Louis acutely feels the gnawing anxiety he used to feel, alone in his bed at night, worrying about Harry. He can't understand why he suddenly feels this way, along with a tingling that shoots from his toes up to his chest.

The adrenaline now jolts him awake, makes him slightly nauseous.

“Yeah,” Louis shakily answers. “Okay. See you soon.”

 

  
•••

 

 

For the next week, Louis debates whether to call the mobile number.

He knows it’s dangerously foolish not to discuss it with Liam or Zayn, and he knows he should. But he keeps the information to himself.

Finally, driven to distraction, he puts on the Batsuit one night, and takes off in his modified NCR M16 motorbike. It’s painted black, with black rims and tires, and brass metal accents. The handlebars are Italian calf leather, and the aerodynamic shield is bulletproof.

Batman leaves from his hidden underground garage.

Roaring from the country highways toward the city, he keeps an eye out for unusual activities. But mostly he revels in speed.

Speed, wind, noise. The cacophony scratches an itch.

Until a few days ago, Louis had given up on Harry. He had left without a word. He was just part of Louis’ past.

Is Edward really Harry? And is Harry, in fact, the Cat? If so, why is he working with the Blind Cupid? Does he not recognize Louis?

Why did he seek Louis out? Does he know that Louis is Batman?

Why is the Cat so vicious, and cynical, and cruel, and Edward so beautifully soft and kind? These thoughts form an unrelieved riddle in Louis’ mind, each question compounding another, stacking like Tetris pieces about to burst his brain.

The traffic picks up as Batman enters the city proper. He comes from the west side, coasting south. The headquarters of Tomlinson Enterprises lie in the southwest section of the city. To the east of the headquarters is the seedy part of Gotham where most of its criminals live — in empty, reinforced concrete buildings, the gangs and mobs of the city.

Batman is on the outskirts of the criminal quarters, when a roar comes straight from his left side, taking him by surprise.

He would recognize it anywhere: the oversized wheels with gold hubs, the brass tacks along the sides, the winged handlebars.

 _So flamboyant,_ Batman thinks. _Damn. So obvious._

The Cat’s motorcycle zooms in front of Batman, weaving in and out of traffic and running red lights. His broad back forms a 45-degree angle with the bike, his muscular arms gripping the handlebars.

Batman knows that the Cat is aware of him. He also knows that the Cat may be luring him on. Nevertheless, he feel compelled to follow.

He pursues.

Although he realizes the danger, Batman can’t help feeling a note of admiration for his opponent. He is amused at the sheer theatricality of his presentation.

_Never a dull moment with this one._

The Cat tears through traffic and takes several sudden turns, until they are out of the heart of the city, careening toward its industrial section, just south of Tomlinson Enterprises. The traffic has thinned out. They cruise through a few more unilluminated, deserted streets, and then the Cat turns into a building with a garage on the first floor.

It is a sleek, windowless building, white in color, several floors in height.

It appears to be the only intact building on the block. Others stand dilapidated around it, their windows blown out, the façades weather-beaten and dark. Only two or three old, rusty cars are parked on the street. The traffic lights hang broken. There are no pedestrians.

Batman pauses outside of the building. The motorized garage door is wide open.

He considers his alternatives. Then he enters.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

_I jumped across for you_

 

 

 

The cavernous garage is brightly lit, with no cars in sight. Its walls are painted a brilliant white. The pillars supporting the ceiling stand like lonely sentinels. Batman maneuvers his motorcycle through the structure slowly.

There is no sign of the Cat. The building is eerily quiet.

Batman pings his location to Tomlinson Manor. Hopefully Liam or Zayn will check it soon, and hopefully the signal transmits.

At the far end of the garage, Batman sees an opening, and a cone of light emitting from it. Coming closer, he realizes it is an open elevator.

As he is contemplating the situation, the garage door through which he entered noisily descends.

He’s trapped.

 

  
•••

 

 

In the Lair, the Cat waits in the semi-darkness, illuminated only by a dim light, behind the closed door.

He gazes up at the monitors in the corners of the room. Niall is supposed to be out for the evening, but one can never be too sure. Behind a panel in the wall, the Cat shuts down all monitors and speakers, cuts off power to recording equipment. Then he sits down to wait, and all is silent again.

The door to the Lair slowly opens. The bright lights of the hallway trickle in, framing the caped silhouette.

The Cat monitors Batman as he surveys the room. They eye each other for a moment, neither of them moving. The Cat, alert to every tick and twitch, senses Batman’s nervous energy. They both have a taste for danger, and Batman has come to feast on it.

The Cat stands up. His bullwhip stays in his right hand, close to his thigh. The fingers on his left hand are spread apart, with the pinky raised slightly above the others. A flick of his wrist sends the whip swishing down the floor toward Batman, where it lingers before snapping back.

“Come here,” the Cat says, softly.

Batman tilts his head, but stays where he is. His face belies none of his emotions. But the Cat can smell his sweat and feel his hunger. He knows.

Maintaining eye contact, the Cat drops his whip to the ground. It is a sensual gesture, the first step in an extended strip tease. He steps closer to Batman.

“Come here,” the Cat commands again, his voice rougher and lower.

Despite the small concession of the whip, Batman knows the Cat isn’t unarmed. He knows about black leather costumes, about disguises and hidden weapons. He knows about boots and heels and concealed daggers. And from their previous engagement, Batman knows that even without an accessory, the Cat is a trained, deadly weapon.

Despite it all, Batman steps forward.

The Cat walks around him to close the door. Then he circles around to Batman, and hovers his face inches away. There is, again, the sweet, fresh, floral fragrance of the Cat, intoxicating and familiar, at once masculine and feminine, just like his lips, pink and perky but framed in a halo of sparse facial hair. Batman’s heart races even faster, knowing that the Cat can sense him, and is using it to torture him slowly.

The Cat’s hand brushes Batman’s thigh as he circles him. His index finger is a mosquito skimming his skin. As he circles, his knuckles graze Batman’s back, lingering on his ass, tracing over the dip of the buttocks and around to the front. Batman’s body stiffens and tenses up.

“It's fantastic,” the Cat appreciates. “ _Your ass._ I’ve been meaning to tell you, Batman. I'm glad you decided to come.”

Batman stares straight ahead and says nothing. The Cat leans forward. He slowly breathes in Batman’s scent of nervous anticipation, closing his eyes to savor it. As Batman holds breathlessly still, the Cat’s tongue flicks out to tease his earlobe, following its outline forward, to the soft skin on his cheek next to the fresh scar.

“How’s that cut of ours?” the Cat whispers. “Did you get someone to tend to it?”

Batman turns and twists his head away. Nevertheless, the Cat feels his pulse quicken, his heart pounding in his chest.

“You're so skittish,” the Cat observes. “What's wrong? Cat got your tongue? All fighting and no play makes for a grumpy mouse…”

After waiting for an answer that never comes, the Cat angles his face and dips in to nibble Batman’s upper lip. Batman remembers his vicious bite from their fight before. He flinches, tensing in anticipation of pain. The Cat can feel his body stiffen, but makes the nibble gentle and tender, barely a fleeting touch.

The Cat nibbles his lip again, and again, and then nudges the lips with his face until they are properly kissing. He feels Batman starting to open to him, his lips parting slightly and slowly waking. The Cat’s tongue darts out to give a tentative, exploratory lick. He pulls on Batman’s arm to bring him closer.

“You’re irresistible, Batman,” the Cat whispers in between kisses. “Did you know that? I can't stay away. You do something to me.”

Batman leans away from the kiss, and the Cat feels his reluctance growing. He watches Batman’s internal struggle on his face and body and he withdraws stiffly, breaking their contact. The Cat lets go of his arms. Batman looks away, trying to drain all excitement from his voice.

“Can I ask you something?” Batman asks, a slight crack in his voice spoiling his composure. “What happened to you?”

The Cat widens his eyes. For a second, his expression shows a flash of anger, but then it’s shut off, like a spigot. He smirks in amusement, tracing Batman’s chin with three fingers. Batman jerks away.

“Your naïveté is adorable,” the Cat answers. “My brave, handsome superhero.”

“What happened to you? Who did this to you?” Batman pursues the question, more insistently. Behind the strength of his voice is a willingness to forgive. After all, there is always a chance that the Cat is worth saving. Maybe he —

“A little respect,” the Cat interrupts. He seizes Batman’s chin forcefully and tips it up, hurting him. “Do you see where you are? You're in _my_ house. _I_ ask the fucking questions. You only answer when spoken to.”

He leans in and takes a kiss from Batman without permission, mashing their lips together and forcing his mouth to open. His tongue probes Batman’s teeth and throat, exploring every corner with an insistent, selfish hunger. His hand rests on Batman’s buttocks and pulls him in, so that Batman feels every ridge of hardness under his costume. The Cat knows Batman’s not immune. He knows, because he can feel Batman under his costume, too.

When they finally break apart, the Cat whispers, “Now, where were we?”

Batman opens his eyes wide and looks up. The Cat’s green, luminous eyes are mesmerizing and tragic. The longer Batman stares at them, the more he can get lost in them. He looks away quickly.

“Why did you bring me here?” Batman asks.

The Cat lets him go and steps back. He exhales a soft laugh.

“Little Mouse, I thought you were a smart one,” he says. “You really can't guess?” He pauses for Batman, who stares with curiosity. “My, my, my. You are a good little superhero. Have you never had hate sex with the enemy?”

Batman is visibly startled. Laughter bubbles from the Cat.

“I want sex,” the Cat says. “It's that simple. I’ve wanted you since I first heard about you, but the real you is so much — better. You’re so fucking hot. I'm gone for you, Batman. Like a lightbulb, I've popped. I want to fuck you, want to fucking destroy you.”

Batman is taken aback. He shakes his head incredulously. The Cat is serious, his eyes soft, his stance unthreatening.

“What do you think?” the Cat nudges.

Batman meets him with silence. In truth, he has never been in a predicament quite like this. He has never felt more threatened by someone, yet never wanted someone back more. His mouth feels empty and urgent, and his breathing quickens, becoming more shallow. An erotic heat shoots up from his legs, and he suddenly can't stand still.

“You’re thinking about it, aren't you?” the Cat asks coquettishly. “Admit it, you’re kind of into it. You wouldn't be here otherwise.”

Batman’s cheeks flush bright red, because the Cat is right. As soon as he stepped into the room, he was here for it, and he wanted it.

“No,” he lies. “I'm not interested.”

“Whatever,” the Cat dismisses him. “We’ll have rules. Yes, _we_. This is strictly between _you_ and _me_. If you trust me, I’ll trust you. Our identities will stay sealed. You'll never see me without my mask, nor I without yours. We’re safe here, Batman. No one will ever find out who we are.”

“You’re insane,” Batman mutters, shaking his head.

The Cat pouts. “Why?”

“Because I'm here to stop you!” Batman shakes his head. “Obviously.” The Cat was confounding and alluring, a poisoned piece of candy.

“Are you?” The Cat licks his lips, spreading out his arms, pushing out his chest and abdomen so every inch is high-definition for Batman. “Stop me then.”

Batman inhales deeply as the Cat’s smell wraps around him like a vice.

“We’re gonna kill each other,” Batman says weakly. “We can kill each other barehanded, you know. There's no stopping us.”

The Cat runs his tongue over his upper lip again. “God, I hope so.”

Batman waits for a beat, then rushes to the Cat. Roughly, he pulls the leather costume to one side and sinks his teeth into the Cat’s neck, biting him and sucking on the skin. The Cat whimpers, but lets him, tipping his head back and cupping Batman’s head. He moans softly to give Batman a taste of what could be. Just as Batman is working a deep, tender bruise into the skin, he suddenly draws back, and pushes the Cat away. The Cat laughs mercilessly at his ambivalence.

“No. This is crazy,” Batman interjects, a little distraught. “You work with the Cupid!”

“So what?” the Cat whispers. “That’s business. This is pleasure.”

“What?” Batman protests. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means what we do here,” the Cat gestures to the room, “is ours. It's safe. It's nobody else’s business.”

Batman takes a step back. “And after?”

“What do you mean?” the Cat asks with feigned ignorance. “After what — sex? When we step out, it's done. You're Batman, defender of Gotham. I'm the Cat, the best thief you never caught. We’re not going to be _boyfriends_. Are we?”

“Of course not! We’re not _anything_. You’re — “

“Oh good.” The Cat gives a theatrical sigh of relief. “I was worried you would be the clingy type.”

Batman sighs with exasperation. He could really kill him right now. “So, we go back to hurting each other.”

The Cat smiles. “Exactly. Once the sex is done, so is the agreement. And I can promise you, Little Mouse, it will be fucking _fantastic_ sex. I know you. You like it tight and kinky; I'm into that. I could tell from the other night.”

Batman swallows, his throat parched and sore. “You’re wrong. You don't know anything.”

“Oh?” the Cat glances down at Batman’s crotch, at the tightening of his suit. “Your sex life is pretty good, then? Get a lot of action in that Batmobile? Bet your smart friends rigged up some fancy shit so you can get yourself off.”

Batman snickers, but the words sting.

“I’m trying to be nice, Batman. You'll get much more from me, and if you want to stop, just say _red. Green, yellow, red,_ that's my system. Nothing will ever be forced on you. You can always go.” The Cat watches Batman intently, sees him wince and take in a small, sharp breath of air. He knows Batman is close to succumbing, on the edge of agreement.

The Cat pushes a little more. “Are you afraid?” He circles Batman. “What are you afraid of, Little Mouse? That you might like me too much? Like _it_ too much?”

Batman smirks. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m sure I’ve had better.” He turns and paces, his cape swinging gently behind him. “You're fucked up, Cat, to divide your loyalties like this. You work for the Cupid, don't you?”

“And if she knows one thing,” the Cat says, “it’s that love is blind.” Batman turns to looks at him. “Love is the least reliable thing — don't you know? It betrays us.”

“So you think — ”

“This isn’t about love,” the Cat cuts him off. He arches his back and raises both hands above his elegant neck, stretching like a large feline. “Love isn’t real. Let’s agree on that right now. No love will be gained or lost, because it doesn't exist.”

Batman allows himself to bite his lower lip. The Cat is enchanting, his fragrance sexual and elusive. Batman wants to reach out and pull the Cat in, to lick and taste him, to punish and possess him, but he doesn’t, and he can’t.

Especially not if the Cat is who he thinks it is… he can’t wade into something so emotionally conflicted. He balls his hands into fists by his side.

“No,” he says. “I’m not interested. I'm going.”                                                                              

“You're not going anywhere,” the Cat firmly contradicts, eyeing him. “You're staying. With me.”

He extends his right hand. Batman makes no move to leave. He is glued to the spot, enthralled by the Cat. Reluctantly, he reaches out and takes the Cat’s hand. The Cat leads him to a chair in the middle of the room.

“Sit. Don’t move,” he says. Then he adds, softly, “I won’t hurt you.”

The Cat walks to the table and picks up a black silk handkerchief. It’s long, luxurious, and smooth. He snaps it tight between his hands. Then he returns and bends down on his knees, with his back to Batman.

“Blindfold me.”

Batman acutely feels the vulnerability of the Cat’s position, on his knees, facing away from him. He could break his neck in three seconds.

He passes the scarf around the Cat’s eyes and ties it behind his head. The Cat checks the tightness, and then stands in front of Batman.

“Don’t touch anything,” he says. “Keep your hands down.”

He walks a few steps, and then, with his back to Batman, unfastens his belt with all the winches, lock picks, and weapons, and lets it drop to the ground.

It falls with a loud clank.

Batman notices that the Cat’s boots wrap snugly around his calves and, in a line that climbs up his long, lean legs, push his bottom suggestively into the air.

The Cat bends at the waist, unzips the back of one boot, works it off his calf, then does the same on the other boot. The motions emphasize his height and the muscularity of his ass. Batman can't look away.

The Cat shrugs his shoulders to slip the leather suit off. The suit is tight around his chest, like a strapless gown. He pushes the material down, and the fine ripples of his back muscles are revealed inch by inch. The strip tease tortures Batman, as it is meant to. The Cat turns around.

Even though his shoulders appear broad, his upper body is surprisingly soft. There are sparse, delicate hairs on his chest. He has two puffed, beige nipples, and two smaller nipples a few inches underneath. His collar bones dip smoothly to the base of his throat. Just below that are the tattoos of two swallows, wings extended, as if flying toward each other, and below them is the detailed, meticulous ink of a large butterfly. It sits between the chest and the belly, and its undulations mirror the movement of the muscle fibers on his chest.

Those tattoos. Batman’s mouth hangs open, studying them.

He gulps and licks his lower lip. He can see the gentle undulations of the Cat’s Adam’s apple as he huffs breaths through his mouth.

The Cat reaches up to cover his nipples. Batman can see him caressing them slowly, tilting his neck and his head back self-indulgently.

“ _Mmmeowgh,_ ” the Cat groans from his throat. “It’s so nice to have an audience, Batman.”

His hands rub the nipples until he cries in short, staticky grunts, and the areolas stiffen and darken. One hand reaches down to palm his growing erection, and the other covers his chest. Batman feels himself tingling, light-headed, hot. His hands are itching to reach up.

“I want your mouth here,” the Cat says, rubbing his nipple. “Want to feel your tongue, want your teeth on me. Want you to suck everything until it’s a leaking mess — a _right_ , _leaking mess_.”

He hears Batman’s sharp intake of breath. He continues to offer the nipple and holds his pose until Batman looks down and away.

The Cat laughs merrily and turns around.

He pushes at the waist of his costume, and shoves it down past his hip dents. He arches his back to push the exposed top of his ass up and bends his knees, coquettishly pushing it out further.

“I feel your hard cock,” the Cat says. “Caged up in there like a jackrabbit, all springy and hoppy and ready to play.” He rocks his hips from side to side, the crack of his buttocks just visible. “Come on, baby. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Batman stutters a cry. The Cat snickers, sensing his resistance ebb away. It feels delicious.

The Cat moans as he palms himself, rutting front to back. Batman can't see his hands, but he sees the jerking motion of his elbow. He wants to reach around and free him from his suit. He wants to feel the bare skin in his hands.

The Cat turns around. Batman sees a trimmed trail of hair from his navel to his crotch, and the ropes of muscles on either side of them, pointing downward. A tattoo of laurel leaves decorate the muscles like crowns at the first Olympics. The muscles are sharply defined, but the Cat has soft handles on the sides, pillowy pouches that Batman wants to bury his face in. The costume hold down a very visible and sizable erection.

Those tattoos are destroying him. They beckon like holograms to be touched, fruits to be tasted.

Batman silently raises his hand and places his palms on the sides of his thighs. His cock stiffens and strains against the suit. A pearl of precome has gathered inside. His fingers creep toward his crotch.

“Don’t fucking touch yourself,” the Cat orders. His head is cocked to one side as he measures Batman’s movements. “Get your hands away.”

Batman stills, groaning silently. He doesn’t know how, but the Cat seems to anticipate his every move. Batman can’t contain himself much longer. He feels wet and painfully engorged.

The Cat reaches into his costume to stroke himself. Batman sees the outline of his hand palming himself through the black leather. He starts slowly, and as his rhythm picks up, he thrusts his hips into his hands, making soft, high-pitched cries. As the speed increases, the Cat slowly pushes the front of his costume down to his knees. His cock emerges, long, stiff, and elegant, jutting out from a soft mound of pubic hair.

He steps out of the costume altogether and advances in the semi-darkness. It was almost as if he could see.

Batman places his hand over his groin and pushes down, hard, hoping the Cat won't notice. He breathes erratically, his breaths hot and uncontrolled.

“No,” the Cat says. He slides toward Batman, puts a hand out to feel where he is, and then straddles him. He pushes his dick against Batman’s belly and sits on top of his erection. His pubic hair is soft, trimmed, and curly, and just brushes against Batman’s wrists.

“Be a good boy,” the Cat orders him. “You can wait, can't you?”

“Please,” Batman whispers. “Don't.”

“Control yourself, baby,” the Cat says. He ruts up, rubbing his cock against Batman’s belly. “You’re doing so well. Your cock is mine. You touch it when I _say_ you can touch it.”

“I can't, I — “

“You’re being very, very good.” The Cat kisses him lightly on the lips. “I'll take care of you, Little Mouse. Just say yes.” Batman looks away, the words suspended on the tip of his tongue.

“Take off my blindfold,” the Cat orders, his legs heavy on Batman’s thighs.

Batman flings the blindfold off the Cat’s eyes, although he still has his mask on. Batman feels as if he’s looking into the jonquil-green eyes of a jaguar.

The Cat gazes into Batman’s dark, blue eyes, wild and unfocused. He slowly rocks forward, still sitting on his lap, then lifts himself, holding his cheeks apart, and screws the crack of his bare ass down over Batman’s cock. He rides Batman slowly and steadily through the thin layer of his costume, every movement dragging Batman’s cock forward. Batman can see the tip of the Cat’s cock glistening with translucent precome, can feel his hard cock against his own belly. Batman groans, trying to hold himself back.

“I'm wet for you, Little Mouse,” the Cat says. “Do you see that? Mngh. So, so wet. I want your pretty mouth around me. Want you gagging and choking when you swallow me down. You good for that?”

Batman whimpers. The Cat leans forward. His hand reaches inside Batman’s mask and grasps a wisp of his hair. He pulls Batman’s head forward and sucks behind his ear, sending a painful thrill down his body. His fragrance surrounds Batman, invades and permeates him. Batman feels the wrongness of it acutely, the badness of it all inflaming his desires all the more. He should _not_ be here. He _cannot_ be doing this.

“Wanna fuck you. Want my cock in your mouth and in your ass. Wanna fuck you until you’re _moaning_ for me, _praying_ for me, _screaming_ for it. Say you want it,” the Cat whispers. “It's all yours, baby. Say _green_ if you want it. Green, baby. Go on. _Say_ _green_.”

“Green,” Batman huffs out. “Green, green.” He moans softly, helpless. “ _Green_. Please...”

The Cat sucks hard again on his jaw, bruising the skin. His lips move to kiss Batman, at first with sweet, small pecks, then darting his tongue hungrily inside.

Batman kisses him back just as hard, chasing his tongue, sucking it down, greedy for the taste of the Cat to fill his nose and mouth. They kiss with a ferocious possession, greedily, heatedly. With uncontrolled need, Batman wraps one hand around the small of the Cat’s back, and the other around his neck. He pulls the Cat to himself with a brutal strength. The Cat sinks into him, willing and eager. His skin feels warm and alive and he smells like jasmine.

“God,” Batman grunts. “Cat. I need...” 

“Come on, baby,” the Cat purrs, rocking down faster. “Do it. _Now. Show me.”_

Batman surges forward from his groin. He bucks up into the Cat, grinding furiously and helplessly, feeling the friction rise and rise. He feels angry, horny, unstoppable. The friction between the suit and the contour of the Cat overwhelms. With a few hard thrusts, he shoots into the crotch of his costume, trapped and wet. He moans and rests his head on the Cat’s shoulder. The Cat holds him and rides him through his orgasm. When the last spasms come, Batman’s body begins to tremble. His legs feel rooted to the ground, his pulses beating into the earth.

“Good Little Mouse,” the Cat soothes. “Sweet, lovely, nice Little Mouse.”

“Fuck me,” Batman says, brokenly. “Fuck.”

“You were amazing, Batman,” the Cat whispers. “Better than I ever expected.”

He slides off Batman's lap and kneels by his side. He nudges his face to Batman’s crotch, sniffs deeply, then kisses the visible outline of his cock, licking him through his costume.

“For next time,” he says.

Batman closes his eyes and breathes hard, coming down. His cock twitches and spurts again with the lick, betraying him. He doesn’t like it. No, he _wants_ it, he _craves_ it. He wants to dominate the Cat, feels this impulse as sure as the cape he wears, wants the Cat to submit in every way. 

After a moment, he finds strength in his legs and stands. His face is flushed and hard. He paces back and forth, his hands restless at his sides. From the ground, the Cat watches in amusement as Batman’s conflicts play out on his face.

“This is not going to work,” Batman says, his hands splayed apart in front of him. “It can't. _I_ can't. I won’t be back. We’re _not_ doing this.”

  
Calmly, the Cat stands up, walks over to the door, and opens it.

“Then don't,” he says. “Nobody’s forcing you. You did this because you wanted to.”

Batman looks at the Cat’s amused, green eyes, at his firm torso and muscular thighs, and at the undeniable beauty of his entire body, splashed with tattoos that bring out his fascinating badness. It is all he can do not to cross the space between them to push him down, to own him. With every fiber of his being, he desperately wants the Cat.

Without another glance, he walks stiffly through the door.

The Cat gazes at Batman’s caped figure, walking briskly away. Batman disappears down the wide, dark corridors.

“See you around, baby.”

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

 

_So then I took my turn_

 

 

 

Three weeks pass without any further disturbances to the city. The Gotham dailies are busily interviewing eyewitnesses, who identify a mysterious figure dressed in a red costume and carrying arrows. But with conflicting reports and the lack of confirmation, they identify no suspects.

One thing is certain. Gotham’s criminal underground seems to sense a weakness in their most feared vigilante. GCPD is suddenly inundated with reports of petty crimes — break-ins and robberies, vandalism, defacement of property. Some downtown businesses are closing earlier, and locksmiths are kept busy.

Batman did not show up to prevent the LAIRE from collapse. He couldn't prevent Marina Drost from being drugged nor her jewelry from being stolen. And he allowed the mass upheaval at the Museum, without so much as a fight. Eyewitnesses allegedly saw the Batmobile chasing a black figure on a motorcycle through the city’s streets, but there was no one apprehended, and no sense of closure. The whole city was humming with gossip about Batman’s flagging abilities.

Is Batman losing his touch? If enthusiasm is any indication, the lack of it from the GCPD crew as they clean the Bat signal these days — no real sense of pride in their work, tepid admiration for Gotham’s favorite son — shows their silent disappointment.

Louis sips his freshly brewed tea as he scans the morning newspapers. Liam stands at the stove, making him eggs on toast, and Zayn is whipping up a spinach-kiwi-protein smoothie. Two touch screen computers, with slightly scuffed protective covering, rest on the kitchen table, as per their daily routine, so they can review the local and national news.

Liam scoops the sunny-side-up egg, its yolk barely warm, onto a crackling piece of toast, and brings the plate over to Louis.

Leaning over, Liam notices the ledes on page three: _Petty Crimes Increase on Public Transportation, Police Silent,_ and even worse, _Is Batman Done?_

He glances at Louis, who returns his gaze. Liam quickly looks away.

“So, um,” Liam says, “you ever check out that address down by the Boardwalk, Louis?”

“Which one?” Louis says, knowing full well what he means.

Zayn brings over his smoothie and sits down. “The hot dog stand? That one, Liam?”

“Yes,” Liam answers. “Just thought it was odd. I was thinking about it the other day. Something to look into, maybe, since we have nothing else.”

Louis waits a few seconds. Finally he says, “Actually, I did. I checked it out.”

Both Liam and Zayn turn toward Louis.

Liam’s expression says, “And?”

Zayn’s says, “I knew it. What the fuck, Louis? What are you hiding?”

Louis sips his tea. “I met him.”

“Edward Selley?” Liam asks, his voice stiff, still sore that Louis hasn't told them. “The Museum guy?”

Louis nods. “Yeah,” he says. “He was the person next to Marina Drost in those photos, at the Museum. I'm sure of it.”

Liam adds sugar into his teacup and pours his tea. He gives it a stir.

“How are you so certain?” he says.

“His resemblance to the photographs, for one thing,” Louis answers. “And he showed up a minute after I bought a hot dog. I’m pretty sure he was waiting for me.”

“For you?” Zayn asks. “Or for Batman?”

Louis considers the question. “First of all, I met a different guy working the hot dog stand. Irish accent, sandy-colored hair, had a name tag that said Niall. We exchanged some small talk. Then he asked me about the cut on my face.” He gestures vaguely to it. The scratch has become a dark pink scar.

“The one the Cat gave you?” Liam asks.

Louis nods. “Yeah, pretty directly. Obviously, they were waiting for me, or someone like me, to show up. Niall, or whoever the hot dog vendor was, alerted Edward Selley. And then he came to make sure I was the right person.”

“What was your take on him?” Liam asks, curious. “This Edward guy.”

“Yeah, what did he say?” Zayn adds quietly.

“Well… I know why Marina Drost went with him,” Louis says. “He’s very… friendly. Charming. He draws people in, has a magnetic, self-deprecating quality. He seems trustworthy.”

Zayn nods. “Yeah, I can imagine that.”

Liam asks, “How long ago was this, dude? Why didn't you tell us?”

Louis considers, and then takes out his phone and clicks it open. He taps open his photographs. Finding the picture, he turns the phone to show them.

It's a photo of his palm, with Edward’s scrawled telephone number on it.

“Holy wasted opportunity, Batman!” Liam says, checking the date of the photograph. “This picture was taken quite a few days ago!”

Zayn glances at Louis curiously. “Almost three weeks ago, looks like.”

“Is this his handwriting? His phone number?” Liam pursues.

Louis turns away, swallowing uneasily, and then swivels back.

“I didn't know whether… I mean, what…” He starts and stops. “I guess, I didn't know what to do with it. So I just held onto it.”

“What are you saying, Louis? This is our only lead, and you just — sit on it?” Liam runs a hand through his wavy hair, aghast. “Unbelievable. We could’ve at least been tracing it, following its activity.” He looks from Louis to Zayn. “Right, Zayn?”

Zayn sips his smoothie, watching Louis. He doesn't answer for a second or two, and then asks, “You know him, Lou?”

Louis pushes his chair back and runs a hand over his face. Then he stands up and takes his teacup to the sink, just to do something. When he turns around, he sees Liam and Zayn exchanging a knowing look.

“I don't know,” Louis says. “Maybe, from a long time ago, before we went to university. I…”

 _I have a secret,_ he thinks. _I have a lot of secrets._

“I'll run a check,” Zayn says, after a moment. “It’s probably a temporary line. I doubt there will be anything to find. If anything, it's just a lure.”

“A lure from the Cupid,” Liam extrapolates.

Zayn nods. “There's just something weird about it, though. Something I can't put my finger on.”

“What do you mean?” Louis asks. He darts a glance at Zayn.

“All these convoluted layers,” Zayn says. “Do they want Batman, or Gotham? Or, most unlikely of all, do they want you, Louis? It's like a cat-and-mouse game — pardon the expression, guys. It's like they’re holding something back. trying to figure something out. Like they don't only want to destroy you, but want something — something else.” He turns his gaze to Louis and holds it for a while. “Maybe I'm overthinking it.”

Louis stares ahead into space.

“What should I do?” he asks. “What’s the next step?”

“Come on, Louis. There's only one thing to do,” Liam says.

Zayn adds, quietly, “Take the bait.”

 

  
•••

 

 

“Hello?”

“Hello!”

“Um,” Louis hesitates. “I'm trying to reach Edward Selley. Are you — ?”

“Yeah,” the voice on the other end says. “This is Edward. Who is this?”

“Well, it’s… it’s Louis.”

“Louis?” There's a pause on the other end. “Uh. I’m very sorry. You must have — “

“Edward, it’s me,” Louis rushes to say, “Louis, from the Boardwalk the other day — the person wanting a friend to enjoy a nice day with.”

“Oh!” Louis thinks his tone of surprise sounds genuinely happy. “Yes! Right! I remember now.”

“Listen,” Louis says. He feels sweaty and cold, for no good reason. “Edward, if you're not busy, I was wondering whether you would want to meet up. Maybe grab a coffee or something.”

The line crackles.

“Yeah, I’d love that, I think.”

“Great! I'll text you? We’ll figure something out.”

“I'm looking forward to it!”

Louis hangs up, his hands shaking. He wonders how many people were listening on the line.

 

  
•••

 

  
“So, now I'm working as a freelancer,” Edward is saying. “Luckily, I picked up a big client when I first got to the city. They gave me quite a few contacts.”

They are sitting at a corner table in A Wicked Brew, a coffee shop just outside of the Gotham reservoir parks.

For a change, Louis has ordered an espresso, black. Edward is drinking a double vanilla latte with a shot of crème caramel.

It's a fine day. The sun’s rays beam through the wooden slats at the tall windows. The shop is noisy. The sounds of chatter and work ricochet from the wooden and steel surfaces.

“What kind of computer work do you do?” Louis asks.

“All sorts of web design,” Edward says, “from simple graphics to setting up entire websites.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“I used to work at a graphics design firm, but just didn't enjoy the office politics, you know?” Edward sips his drink. “So I decided to strike out on my own. I like working by myself, anyway. It's quieter, and I get to set my own hours.”

Edward’s tousled hair is slightly damp and smells, faintly, of soap and jasmine flowers. The wavy strands seem to fall perfectly into place whenever he moves his head. He wears a light blue, unbuttoned printed shirt over a white T shirt, and dark blue jeans. His eyes seem deeper and darker this morning, the green of shaded leaves.

Louis asks, “Are you a morning person or a night person?”

Edward chuckles. “Morning, always. You?”

“Usually night, if I must admit,” Louis says. “Coming here, now?” It’s nine in the morning. “It's pretty brutal for me.”

“Yeah?” Edward smiles. “Well, you don't look bad. Not at all.” Louis notices how his dimples deepen, his eyes shine as bright as jade. “Sorry to drag you out.”

“No, no, it's fine,” Louis answers. “If I don't get up before noon, the whole day is ruined. I don't have good self-discipline; I could stay in bed all day. So I need someone to push me out, so to speak.” Louis finishes his espresso and gestures to the counter. “In fact, I think I'll get another one, to help me wake up. Do you want anything, Edward?”

“No, thanks.” Edward points to his cup. “Still working on this one.”

When Louis returns, Edward leans forward and asks, “How about you, Louis? What do you do for work?”

Louis catches his look. For a second, he thinks he sees a fleeting curiosity, a coyness so brief that he thinks he must have imagined it. But then he notices Edward’s smile freeze in place, and he realizes that Edward must have known that he saw it.

“I own Tomlinson Enterprises,” Louis says simply. “It was my grandfather’s business. When he passed away, the company came to me. A few years ago, now.” He sips his coffee.

“You mean, the Tomlinson Enterprises, of Gotham City?” Edward’s eyes widen.

“The one and the same.”

“I had no idea,” Edward marvels. “Must be exciting to be in charge of such a big company.”

“It's a big responsibility,” Louis says. “I don't take it lightly. We try to take care of every employee. That’s as important as the products we make.”

Edward looks into the distance, dreamily. “Right. Always protecting others.”

“What?” Louis’ head snaps up.

“I mean,” Edward straightens up. He wrinkles his nose and runs a hand through his hair. “Always being a good steward. It must get tiring after a while.”

“Someone has to do it,” Louis answers, watching him closely. “It is what it is.”

“Louis, do you ever wonder,” Edward says, his hands on the table between them, “why it has to be you? Why can't it be someone else?” He clears his throat and stares him down. “You're so young. Don’t you miss your freedom? To do what you want. Not to have to worry about everyone else all the time.”

And then, all at once, in that flicker of a glance, Louis knows. He knows that Edward — or whoever he is — _knows_ that he’s Batman.

“Some things are worth more than personal freedom,” Louis answers, stoically.

Edward grins at him, then raises his arms and stretches them behind his head, pushing his chest out. It is a languid and elegant movement, with his head arched back and his ribs outlined through his shirt. The broadness of his shoulders is exaggerated in this pose. The muscles of his biceps fire and gallop. Louis can't help but stare fixedly at his beauty, can't help being caught when Edward puts his arms back down.

“I don't know,” Edward says. “I like my freedom. I guess that makes me selfish.”

He reaches across the table and takes Louis’ hand. Louis freezes in place, as Edward slowly turns his palm up, and delicately begins to trace the lines with a finger.

“Life is short,” Edward says. His finger moves in slow, serpentine ribbons across Louis’ hand. “Why waste it being noble? Why not seize the day?”

Louis grips his hand around Edward’s finger.

“I can’t,” he says. “It's not only about me.”

Edward pauses, and then takes his hand away.

“Then who is it for?” he asks, waiting for an answer that never comes. “Gotham?” He stands up. “It was great to see you again, Louis.”

Louis looks up at Edward, at his chiseled, young, perfect beauty. Louis’ mind is racing in a hundred directions. He searches for the anchor that has guided him all these years, the powerful, calming words of his father telling him to protect the weak. But right now, he is the weak. Weak, tempted, hungry.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “I'll see you.”

“Good-bye.”

 

  
•••

 

  
Batman’s motorbike waits outside of the white building.

Inside, the lights are turned off. The street appears dead, haunted. A stray newspaper rustles on the pavement near a gutter. It is dusk. The sun’s vermilion rays slant from the distant horizon.

Batman half-wishes that the garage would stay shut, and no one is watching, so he can go home.

But, of course, the garage door rattles open. Batman guides the bike through, and wearily cruises to the back, where the elevator waits.

 

 

•••

 

 

The Cat sits straddling the chair, facing the door. Footsteps come down the hallway. There's no question who it is. The seconds creep by as they get closer.

The door flies wide open.

For an instant, there is only the pyramid of light leaking from the hallway. The Cat hears Batman’s quiet, steady breathing humming across the room. Isn't it unusual that Batman’s wearing goggles?

Then, all at once, the Cat senses an angled object coming straight toward him, like a metallic flash. A second and a third object rapidly follow.

Batarangs — titanium, eight-inch-long, bat-shaped boomerangs — are targeted through the air, with high-pitched _zings!_ They are coming directly for the Cat’s head.

His bullwhip lashes out and slaps the weapons down, like ground-to-air missiles. The metallic batarangs fall with loud clatters, each one like an undetonated bomb. The end of the whip is slowly being shredded by the high velocity batarangs, the leather disintegrating into tatters. The Cat flips the handle and slaps the last batarang with the embedded diamond in the hilt, striking it from the air.

Before the Cat can catch his breath, Batman throws out a series of blindingly bright, magnesium flashes. The Cat drops his whip, squeezes his eyes shut, and swings out of his chair, ducking to the left.

So this is the reason for the goggles! Batman’s intent was to fucking _murder him._ The Cat grabs something from the table and, swinging his arm back, launches the weapon like a lasso, as forcefully as possible.

It is a cat’s-claw bolas, a five-pronged chainmail weapon with sharpened iron claws at the end. Despite the heavy iron, the bolas spins as quick as lightning toward Batman. It makes a whistling howl in the air.

Batman raises his cape and activates the electromagnetic deflector, which stops the bolas in mid air, like magic, and then curves it back toward the Cat. Batman flaps his cape, propelling the bolas forward like a bullet.

The Cat flips back to the right, and the bolas flips over his head to land with a thud on the large bed in the corner, missing him by mere centimeters. Before the Cat can recover, Batman hurls a net to ensnare him. He curses and struggles to untangle himself.

Batman gets there before the Cat can escape, throwing his entire weight on him. The Cat keeps bucking and fighting. Keeping him pinned, Batman maneuvers the Cat until he’s prone on the ground, then leans heavily against him, tightly trapping him.

“You’ve let me down, Batman!” the Cat yells. “I gave you a gift, and this is how you repay it. I'm so fucking _disappointed!_ ”

“How’s that, exactly?” Batman coos as he struggles to restrain the Cat.

“This is bullshit!” the Cat retorts. “You know how. You ruined this. You fucking attacked our safe space, you fuck!” He twists sideways, bends at the waist and kicks hard.

“Did I?” Batman says. “No, I didn't.” He ducks his head to hide a smile.

The Cat spins around, as much as he can manage. “You did, asshole! Let me go! Fucking let me — ”

“Hold still,” Batman says. “Babe, you're gonna hurt yourself.”

“Shut up! Don't call me that.” The Cat kicks out, furious. “Fucking asswipe.”

Batman shifts so that less weight is on the Cat while still keeping him captive. The Cat tries to swing out his arms but the net confines him, causing him to shout in frustration.

“Take it easy,” Batman says. “I wasn't going to hurt you. I knew you could block them.”

The Cat curses under his breath. “Block what?”

“The batarangs, those bat-shaped boomerangs,” Batman explains. “I knew you would block them.”

“What if I didn't?”

Batman suppresses a smile. “Then, too bad for us both, I guess. You wouldn't be much of an opponent, would you?” The Cat bucks again, kicking and flailing. Batman holds him tight. “But you did it, Kitty Cat. You defended yourself. You did so well.”

The Cat is silent in response. He seems to be taken aback by Batman’s words.

After a pause, he says, “What about the cat’s claws?” He gestures with his head toward the bed, where it had landed. “You couldn't have expected that.”

“I knew you would counter-attack.” Batman reaches over to stroke the Cat’s cheek, touching his skin softly and deliberately, through the net. “What kind of poor assassin would you be if you didn't try?”

“Don't you dare touch me,” the Cat says, jerking his face away, still fighting. “Fuck off.”

“No,” Batman says light-heartedly. “ _You_ fuck off.”

“ _You_ f — “

Batman leans down and catches the Cat’s lips with a kiss, through the net. The Cat reflexively backs away, thinking it to be an attack, but Batman cups the back of his neck and pulls him close.

The net makes a barrier between them, so they can't properly kiss, but the Cat’s lips wake to Batman’s, and they start actually responding to each other. They both feel the heat and chase the moment. Both want more; both are denied more, for the time being. Batman licks the Cat’s lips through the net. The Cat angles his face up and closes his eyes.

Batman lifts his weight from the Cat. He works the net free and removes it.

For a moment they merely lie on the floor, aligned head to toe, kissing each other, devouring each other, their mouths hungry for each other. They forget the deadly weapons they used just minutes ago, lying all around them — the batarangs, the cat’s claw bolas, the bullwhip, the magnesium flares. They feel only the dark pull of arousal, a contrary feeling stirred from the adrenaline of being attacked and surviving, glowing from their abdomen.

“I hate you,” the Cat breathes, in between kisses. “I fucking hate you,” he pants. “But I — I — want you — ”

“I know,” Batman says. His teeth tug on the Cat’s lower lip and pull it out, hurting him a little, and then he licks and kisses it. The Cat gives a small moan. “Me too. So much.”

“You came back,” the Cat says. His green eyes search Batman’s blue ones, fleetingly, seeking confirmation.

“Don’t get a big head,” Batman answers. “It’s just sex, remember?”

The Cat firmly runs his hands down Batman’s back. “Exactly. I'm glad you’re seeing things my way.”

“For your information,” Batman says, “I would never compromise our safe space. You gave me your trust and I will always honor it.” His tongue probes the Cat’s teeth, licking his tongue, playing with it.

“ _Fucking liar!_ ” the Cat growls, breaking the kiss. “You were aiming for my head!”

“I know what kind of fighter you are, Kitty Cat,” Batman says. “I knew you’d prove yourself.”

He starts removing the Cat’s leather suit, tearing at the shoulders to push it down. The Cat helps, sliding and pulling it off, so that it’s soon at his waist. Batman kisses the Cat’s neck, pulling him close to swallow and inhale his scent. He sucks at the skin just below the jaw and bruises it, marking him up, giving him a piquant memory.

“You’re so fucking much,” Batman says. “You don't even know how you turn me on, do you? Want to tear you apart, want to watch you come. It's all I've been thinking about.”

His hands touch the Cat’s body, fly over his swallow tattoos, stroke his butterfly. The Cat throws his head back and arches his back, so that his torso is open and available to Batman. Batman runs his hands down the Cat’s sides and presses his face to the Cat’s heart. He opens his mouth and finds the nipple, and then starts licking and sucking on it. The Cat responds by pushing his nipple closer, into Batman’s mouth, and moaning aloud, a soft, high, pleasured sound. His nipples turn from soft and puffy to pebbly hard, red and pointed.

“Get undressed,” the Cat says, urgently. “Now.”

He stands up, and walks to the table. When he returns, Batman has taken off his cape and has removed most of his suit. The Cat waits for him to finish stripping.

“Stand up,” he says.

Batman obeys. The Cat removes the rest of his own suit, and they appraise each other. Batman notices more tattoos on the Cat’s body, on his lean arms and legs. They stand naked except for their masks, hiding their identity and their true expressions. Batman sees the luminous green of the Cat’s large eyes, and he feels like prey, like a mouse who has been chased down and mesmerized, at the mercy of the predator, unable to escape — wanting to stay, wanting to be devoured, wanting to be ripped apart from limb to limb. It terrifies him and inflames him equally.

The Cat sees the reddish-bronze, curly hairs on Batman’s chest, matching his facial hair. He knew Batman had lovely curves — his suit leaves little to imagination — but it still arouses him to see the slight dip at the bottom of Batman’s spine leading to his curvy ass, the inward curve of his waist, the muscular expanse of his chest, the thickness of his erect cock.

 _His waist._ The Cat’s gaze lingers too long on Batman’s small waist, remembering his own hands shaped in mid-air to cup around it. Instead, he hurriedly grabs one of Batman’s hand and leads him to the bed.

Batman sees that the Cat has a pair of soft cuffs in his hands. Before the Cat can say anything, Batman orders, “Get in bed, Kitty Cat.”

Confused, the Cat whips his head to look at Batman.

“What?” he says.

Batman gently slides the cuffs out of his hands. “I said, get in bed.” He watches the Cat. “Be nice, Kitty Cat.”

“That's not how game goes,” the Cat states.

“Says who?” Batman asks. He walks to the Cat and touches his elbow. “Give me your color.”

The Cat is taken aback. He stares at Batman and hesitates. “Yellow,” he says. “Very much yellow.”

Batman leans in.

“Good Kitty,” he whispers, his voice raspy and low. “You’ll be a good Kitty, won't you? I'll take care of you.” His hand gently touches the small of the Cat’s back, and he strokes him soothingly. “Trust me.”

The Cat looks at Batman, and then at the bed. This prospect had not occurred to him. He's not opposed, but this does… put an unexpected spin on things. He doesn't know where it will lead, and he doesn't love not knowing. After some consideration, he decides.

“Fight me for it,” the Cat says.

Batman turns to study him. He sees that the Cat’s expression is defiant but open, willing to take a chance. “What's your color?” he asks.

“Green,” the Cat fires back. “If you want it,” he turns to Batman, “then fight me for it.”

“Green?” Batman asks. “You sure?”

The Cat nods.

Batman nudges the Cat with his side, but he doesn't move. Neither of them moves. Batman gazes into the Cat’s eyes, narrowed in an intense stare. The Cat tips his chin up a bit, as if to say, try harder.

Batman shoves him, hard, and the Cat blocks it with his left arm, his triceps and deltoid muscles straining. He twists and tries to counterattack. In a few seconds, Batman has control of his arm, twists it behind his back and holds him close.

He whispers, “Color?”

“Still green,” the Cat whispers, slightly breathless. “Go on.”

Batman shoves him into the bed and then holds his wrists together, behind his back.

“You win, Kitty Cat,” Batman says. “Always fighting to win.”

“Stop talking,” the Cat says, roughly. “Cuff me up. Do it.”

Batman puts the cuffs on. The Cat lies quietly while he does it. He’s lying prone, on his belly, with his head turned to the side.

 _I can take off his disguise,_ Batman thinks, _just like that. Why does he fight so hard, when he’s lying here without any resistance?_

But he doesn't. A promise is a promise. _And_ , he thinks, _it's not the right time. Not yet._

Batman slides one knee between the Cat’s thighs and coaxes them apart. He places his hands on the inside of the thighs, his right hand moving up until it touches the silky undersurface of the Cat’s balls. Batman uses two fingers to stroke them gently, feeling the curved contours, the soft consistency. The Cat relaxes and breathes in, spreading his legs further apart. Batman feels his balls delicately, and then presses a kiss to them, feels the softness against his lips.

“Lube?” he asks the Cat.

“On the table,” the Cat says. “And condoms.”

“Safety first,” Batman says with a straight face.

The Cat bursts out in a spontaneous giggle. The sound is high and clear, causing Batman’s mind to flash back to a sycamore tree, its broad back illuminated by the setting sun, and a beautiful boy with dimples and curls, an awkward first kiss. He shakes this image away. It's long past.

Batman returns to the bed and throws the lube and condom on it. He wraps his legs on either side of the Cat’s thighs and lets his weight fall for a moment, his cock on the Cat’s ass.

“Kitty Cat,” Batman whispers, silky and smooth. “Naughty, naughty Kitty.”

He kisses the back of the Cat’s neck, and then slides his lips down the spine, his breath ghostly, barely there. He holds the Cat’s waist, and kisses in the dip of the spine, softly.

“Bad Kitty,” he says. “The _baddest_.”

Then he twirls his fingers through the Cat’s, held in handcuffs.

In one of the Cat’s hands, he feels something thin and tough — thin strips of raised scars, slashed across the palms.

A flag is raised in Batman’s mind. He shifts his weight, scoots to the side, and examines the hand. The scars are fine filaments of suffering, carved into the skin. They're raised and pink, barely visible to the eyes. His fingers gently explore them, tracing them from end to end. He's remembering a particular moment — one that he now knows the Cat has re-lived too many goddamn times, by himself.

He wants to hold and kiss the hand, but he knows he will not be able to bear it. So he squeezes it.

And the Cat squeezes back.

Abruptly, the Cat pulls his hand away, as if on fire. In that moment, Batman realizes they are connected, thinking about the same moment, in Headmaster McGee’s office, long ago. His thought is confirmed by the Cat’s sharp intake of breath, an inward stutter, as if trying to undo what has already happened.

It is too late. Batman knows, and he knows that the Cat knows.

Batman doesn't hold the Cat’s hand, nor does he say anything. Instead, after a moment, he takes the handcuffs off. The Cat places his hands on either side of his body and lies quietly.

Batman touches the nape of the Cat's neck, and massages the neck muscles lightly. He runs the palm of his hand down the Cat’s back, soothingly and gently.

The Cat turns on his side, facing away from Batman. He’s rigid and silent, and it seems, not in the mood to play anymore.

Batman scoots closer and puts his arm around the Cat’s waist, spooning him properly. The contact of bare skin is intimate and human. Batman’s legs tuck in behind the Cat’s slightly longer legs. He strokes the Cat’s belly in slow circles, on his butterfly tattoo, so he imagines. He can feel the Cat breathing shallowly, in and out.

“Whoever did that to you,” Batman says, “I hope you gave him a proper thrashing, Kitty Cat. Hope you fucked them up good.”

The Cat says nothing. His head is lying on one of his hands. Batman doesn't push it. He put his face between the Cat’s shoulder blades, kisses, and just lays his face there.

After a while, the Cat seems to relax and curl into Batman. He puts his scarred hand over Batman’s and brushes his palm along the back of Batman’s hand lightly, to let him feel the scars. Their scratchiness causes the hairs on Batman’s arm to stand straight up. The Cat’s fingers envelope Batman’s smaller hand, and he squeezes. Batman returns his squeeze to hold his hand tight.

The Cat turns around. His focus is on Batman's cheek, on the light scar he gave him. Leaning forward, he kisses down the scar, and then draws Batman’s chin toward himself to kiss his lips. His lips are slightly open and sweet; they pull on Batman’s lips like warm pillows.

Batman pulls him in and angles his head, so he can properly kiss the Cat, with attention, the way he is meant to be kissed, with protection and remembrance and understanding, the way he should be kissed, tenderly, carefully, with honesty.

The Cat’s hand strays to Batman's hips and pulls him in. Their cocks bump softly against each other.

“You,” the Cat asks, nudging Batman. “You’ll keep me safe?”

“Always,” Batman answers. “If you let me.”

Batman kisses down the Cat’s body. He mouths the navel and the trail of dark, soft hairs leading down, and then the tip of the Cat’s cock, which jerks up in response. He sucks the head in, swirls his tongue and watches the Cat pull his hip back, his mouth opening slightly in pleasure.

“I'm going to suck you off,” Batman says. “Color?”

The Cat says nothing, but pushes Batman's head down to his groin, and bucks his hips forward to put his cock into Batman’s mouth.

Batman uses the flat of his tongue to lick up the side of the Cat’s cock. He's dreamed about this long, elegant cock ever since he saw it, has wanted to suck it dry, has wanted it to come all over himself. It's a terrible thought. The fight between his desire and his sense of justice is never stronger than when he's with the Cat. Just thinking about it gets him hard, makes him want to smash something.

The Cat seems to feel the same way. He's fully hard. He closes his eyes and raises both hands above his head, clasps them together as if he still has the cuffs on. His head is turned slightly and his brows are knitted, his mouth slightly open.

“Keep your hands up,” Batman says. “Be good for me.”

“Yes, Batman,” the Cat replies hazily. “I’ll be good.”

“I know you will, Kitty Cat,” Batman says. “My good pussy-cat.” He swirls his tongue, and sucks down the Cat’s stiff cock, filling the hollows of his cheeks until it hits the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat. He can feel the cock twitch. He drags the skin slowly and licks the head until he finds the tip. He swirls his tongue on the tip and then tongues the foreskin back and forth, until the Cat writhes in pleasure.

“I'm going to finger you, Kitty Cat,” Batman says. “You okay with that?”

The Cat glances over to retrieve the lube, and tosses it to Batman below.

Batman squirts lube on his hands, wrapping one around the base of the Cat’s cock and stroking it, so the wetness of the lube adds to the wetness of the spit. The other hand reaches down further and finds the pink opening of the Cat’s hole.

Batman inserts one finger. He feels a gasp from the Cat as he contracts around it. He licks the cock, and then sucks it down again, using his other hand to jerk the skin. He feels the undulation of the Cat’s hips as he starts to tremor.

The Cat’s hands are still held high above his head, his eyes scrunched in erotic pleasure. He looks vulnerable and beautiful. His legs fall slightly further apart to let Batman’s hand in. Batman watches him, sees the light brown hairs in his armpits, and he wishes he could fuck him now, stretch him wide open and put his dick inside, feel him wrapped around his dick.

He inserts a second finger and slides them out, at the same time jerking the Cat faster. He can hear the Cat’s erratic breathing, his moans going higher, louder, and more frantic.

“Kitty Cat,” Batman says, turned on beyond reason himself. “You're a fucking tease.”

“Says the man with a cock in his mouth,” the Cat groans. “ _Please, Batman_.”

“Are you begging?”

“If you want me to,” the Cat drawls. “Please… fuck, yes… please... please… Batman, I need… oh, I want…”

“I like you,” Batman grunts. “I like hearing you. I like sex with you. You're beautiful.”

“Shut up,” the Cat says. “I'm so close. _Fuck_. You're so…” his words cut off with a deep growl, tapering off into a whine, “...so fucking intense.”

Batman jerks harder and faster, sucks and slides even tighter. He feels for the base of the Cat’s prostate and strokes it lightly, getting the Cat to twitch and moan. His lips pop off as he feels the first surges of the Cat’s orgasm. His fingers are still in the Cat’s ass, and his other hand tightens around the base of his cock. The Cat’s hips pull back, and hang for a second of ecstatic suspension. Then he rams forward and gushes out in creamy pulses, hitting Batman’s nose and lips. His moan hangs in the air like a dirty valentine — red, fucked out, loud. He keeps dribbling out as Batman licks the corner of his lips, stroking his fingers deeper.

“Oh,” the Cat moans, still shaking, pulsing. “ _God._ Batman.”

“Soft Kitty, be good for me,” Batman says, taking him through it. “Nice Kitty. Good little pussy cat.”

The Cat groans with the praise, jerking his hips and coming harder. He cries softly, desperately. “Do you want to… see… how good I am? Do you want to? Do you want me?”

Batman wipes his face, presses a kiss to the Cat’s cock, and says, “I do. I _really_ do. But right now, I'm going to jerk off on you, and then I'm leaving.”

“But… why?”

Batman put his hand on his throbbing dick, and even the soft touch made him shudder with need. He wanted to lift the Cat’s leg and take him, to fuck him deep and hard.

“I can't do this, Kitty Cat. I can't hate myself more than I do right now. I want you so much. You’re killing me. Wanna fuck you. So much.”

The Cat raises one knee and slowly lets his legs fall farther apart. He licks his lips, his languid eyes inviting Batman to watch him. His cock twitches a little, as his hand grasps the come-slathered tip and jerks. Lube and come form a trail of wetness from his cock down to his pink, puckered, open hole.

“Yeah?” he whispers. “Show me.”

“Fuck.” Batman bites down on the Cat’s jaw. With a few pulls, his come is shooting everywhere, painting the Cat.

The liquid falls like a rain shower.

“Fuck!” Batman cries, drawing out his release until he is empty, quivering, completely spent.

He leans over to kiss the Cat, a long and tender kiss, full of want and desire, and another, more abstract desire, for identity and honesty. Batman grabs the Cat’s face and holds him tenderly. He closes his eyes as they kiss.

_If only. If only._

 

 

 

[Moodboard](https://13ways-of-looking.tumblr.com/post/165283500116/title-yellow-author-13ways-of-looking-13ways) to reblog on Tumblr

Thank you for reading. 


	10. Chapter 10

 

“Can you tell me again,” Niall says, “exactly how you broke the whip? I'm not blaming you, Harry. It's just — yak leather doesn't grow on trees, you feel me?” He holds the bullwhip sadly, its buttery leather in tatters, the last foot of it missing. Niall hates when beautiful, hard-to-procure weapons die before their time.

“Batarangs,” Harry mutters. “You know what they are, Niall? Titanium boomerangs in the shape of bats.” He turns his back on Niall and starts pacing, his hands on his hips. “They shred anything on contact.”

“You didn't get him to leave one, did you?”

“He was trying to kill me, Niall.” Harry glares. “It wasn't a great time for negotiations.”

“Too bad,” Niall says, regretfully. He walks back to his work table. “It would have been nice to get an even exchange. At least I could’ve worked on a counter-weapon.”

Harry paces back and forth without answering. He’s chewing on his lip, worrying his mouth with each step.

“Harry.”

Not listening to him, Harry continues his nervous shuffle. Niall waits a few more seconds.

“Harry!!”

Harry looks up, eyes tired and brows furrowed.

“You alright, mate?” Niall asks.

“I’m fine,” Harry answers with some distraction, his thoughts interrupted. “Why?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Niall waves his hands.

“I'm _fine_ ,” Harry emphasizes. He sucks his upper lip in, and paces again, fingers tapping an irritated beat against his hip bones.

“This is the second time you’ve fought him hand-to-hand,” Niall states. “I know Batman’s a tough opponent, Harry, but. Well. You hurt him pretty good the first time, and now, he’s throwing metal guillotines at your head, and just… escapes.” Niall stops short, studying Harry, who is still pacing. “Just wondering if you’re losing your touch. Are you gonna get yourself hurt?”

“Yeah, right. _I'm_ going to get hurt.” Harry snorts sarcastically, then stops and looks indignantly at Niall. “What do you take me for, Ni? I know what I'm doing. It’s all part of a plan. I'm letting him get ahead on purpose. It's under control.”

“Oh, right! _On purpose!_ ” Niall chuckles. “Letting him feel overconfident by _almost_ killing you! I get it. Say no more. You're slowly luring him in by _letting him destroy_ my whip. _My_ whip, Harry. Do you know how difficult it is — ” Niall exhales loudly, but stops himself. “No, you know what? Forget it. Never mind. I'm not gonna get into it with you.”

“Are you — what — are you implying, Ni? Don't you trust me?” Harry turns on him. “Niall, we’re on the same side here.”

“I'm not doubting you, Harry. It just feels a bit… off, I guess.” Niall scratches the back of his neck and watches him. Harry is still glaring with his piercing eyes, but Niall is accustomed to his moods, and doesn't back down. “Like, did you run your little plan by the Cupid? Or is this plan your own invention — Harry’s secret plot to take over Gotham.”

Harry stops short, looks at Niall, and quickly glances away. He crosses his arms and faces obliquely away from Niall, a dark expression on his face.

Harry asks curtly, “Got anything else for me?”

Niall watches him with some curiosity.

“Hey, don't get yourself in too deep,” Niall replies. “You know what I mean? That's all I'm saying. I don't know if it's revenge, or what. I've never seen you like this, Harry.” He watches Harry, who makes no attempt at eye contact. After a pause, Niall adds, “It's almost like you have a thing for Batman.”

Harry whips his body around. “ _What?_ That is a lie.”

“Huh?” Niall shakes his head in confusion. “What'd I say? I just meant, it's like, you have a vendetta against him, or something.”

“There's nothing but professional hatred between me and Batman,” Harry states slowly and clearly. “I'll deliver him to the Cupid, right on time.”

Niall weighs these words. “Alright, Harry. Don't get your panties in a bunch. Just remember what the Cupid always says.”

Simultaneously, Harry replies, “ _Love is blind_ ,” while Niall says, “ _Never make it personal._ ”

Niall tilts his head and narrows his eyes. He watches Harry flinch away, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of pink.

The door to the workroom opens. A diminutive woman, dressed in black from her neck down to her black leather ballet slippers, walks in. Her athletic outfit hugs her body, emphasizing the lean, corded muscles of her upper arms and shoulders, the rippling swells through her chest. Her dark brown hair is tucked in a bun, and wrapped around her head is a crimson eyepiece. For all her compact elegance, she could be getting ready for a lethal ballet performance.

“Cupid.” Niall and Harry both lower their eyes, respectfully.

“Boys,” she answers. Her voice is cool and unemotional. “How are we coming along?”

Despite the fact that the Cupid can’t actually see Niall, he straightens his stance before answering. “Good. I think we’re right on time. We should be taking delivery of the last batch of chemicals very soon.”

A quick nod shows her approval. “Any hitches?”

Niall shakes his head. “None that I can see.”

The Blind Cupid turns toward Harry. “And how about Batman?”

Harry can't help but clear his throat. “I'm on him, Cupid. I've been doing some reconnaissance, studying his movements.”

“Have you?” Her voice is silky smooth. “Your conclusions, Harry? Anything useful?”

Harry clenches his hand, the one with the scars, by his side. “None so far,” he says. “But I'm still looking.”

The Cupid does not reply, but walks quietly to the back wall, hung with a myriad of bows, sheaves of arrows, axes in various sizes, maces, knives, daggers, and swords. On the tarpaulin spread out on the ground, Niall has laid out an array of five-point stars, throwing knives, chained lassos. He was hoping Harry would try them out later.

“Your conditioning, Harry,” she says, facing away from the weapons. “Staying lively?”

“Always, Cupid,” he answers.

“Care for a refresher?”

“Sure.”

Harry swallows quietly.

The Cupid pivots around, opens her palm toward Niall, and then snaps her fingers and gestures for him to leave. Niall steals a brief glance at Harry, and then picks up the broken bullwhip and heads toward the exit. He looks back quickly, one more time, before shutting the door behind himself.

Harry walks toward the Blind Cupid and braces himself.

She has trained his senses to be on alert at all times, reacting to sight and sound like a predator at the height of stalking. Through her training, he has become among the elite of underground criminals, able to escape the diciest situations by disappearing into thin air. His body is a well-honed weapon, expected to both react to and inflict massive amounts of damage in fractions of a second. From time to time, the Cupid tests him — never to hurt him, always to make him better. Whatever the intent, Harry has suffered some nice cuts and bruises in the past. The cuts were never overwhelming, and they always taught him something new.

The Cupid senses where he is, and then performs two back flips until she is squatting on one knee, near the wall. Her fingers feel the edges of the tarpaulin.

Harry bends his knees and relaxes his hands by his sides, anticipating what would come next.

A five-pointed star zooms toward his legs. He leaps to avoid it, as it flies past him to clatter to the floor behind. Three more stars follow, with pauses in between, for him to get his bearings, so he can be prepared to react. Harry is a bit puzzled that the Cupid has chosen to use this dangerous weapon, without his having protection on. With a flinch, he realizes that he isn't even wearing goggles.

The Cupid comes forward with a long fighting stick that resembles a javelin or jousting stick. She thrusts it at Harry, who ducks out of the way, then parries a slash from the side. When Cupid sweeps the stick low, aiming at Harry’s legs, he uses one palm to push it down, and leaps over it lightly. Keeping his hand on the stick, he takes it from her, his weight and power overwhelming hers. She walks her hands up the stick to lever him off, but Harry holds on tight.

The Cupid reaches in the back of her belt, and with an elegant finesses, slides something like a spiked clay rod up the pole. It painfully dislodges Harry’s right hand with a dull tck!

She reaches back to grab two more rods, and flings them behind her, around her waist, curved 180-degrees around her body toward Harry, hitting him softly in the chest. The rods knock Harry backward.

The Cupid spins around and finds her balance. She holds the fighting stick triumphantly. Harry is breathing hard, the sharp ache of his hand and chest compounded by surprise.

The Cupid cocks her head. She seems surprised, too.

Then she straightens up, tucks a strand of hair back into her bun, and says, “Careful, Harry. Don't lose your focus.” She walks to replace the stick against the wall.

Harry shakes his head, still incredulous as to what just happened. _If those clay rods had been knives…_

“Yes, Cupid,” he replies lowly, still shaken.

“The masquerade ball is coming up,” she states, brushing her hands off and walking toward the door. “Are you ready?”

“Ready, Cupid.” Harry stares after her. His embarrassment is acute, but it is mixed with a new resolution.

“Brilliant. I expect no less from you.”

She smiles without any warmth, at no particular person. She walks up to him, her hand reaching out for him, but he does not come forth to meet her. Her hand hovers in front of his face, palm side out, and slowly waves the air in front of his face, feeling the direction of the backdraft. Then she cups his cheek in her palm.

“My beautiful, deadly Cat,” she says. “My perfect weapon.”

There is a silent moment when Harry says nothing, but looks down. The Cupid tilts her head as she feels this minuscule movement. Her hand falls, she walks toward the door in the corner. She turns to study Harry once more, and then exits, the door clicking shut behind her.

After a moment, Harry starts picking up the pieces of the stick, the rods, and the throwing stars off the floor, getting ready to begin his hour of martial arts training.

He feels as though Cupid has given him a clean drink of water. His head is starting to feel like it’s in the right space again.

 

  
•••

 

  
The Gotham Masquerade Ball is a charity event, traditionally held on the last week of summer each year, to raise money for the charity of the honored guest’s choosing. This year, the guests were Trenton and Marina Drost, and the proceeds would go toward a new pediatric wing for the Gotham Mercy General Hospital.

The party always takes place at the Wellington Hotel in downtown Gotham, a few blocks from the reservoir parks. A ten-minute walk down the street is the gorgeous, multi-layered Fontaine de l’oiseau rebelle, a fanciful water fountain gifted from France. Every night, it dances with light and music, notably from Ravel’s Bolero, a crowd favorite.

Valets wait at the curb of the hotel as arriving guests slip out of their cars in costume, some of them funny, others ridiculously glamorous. Two Elvis Presleys have already gone inside, as has a Marilyn Monroe (circa _The Seven Year Itch_ ), a Marie Antoinette, a Sherlock Holmes, an Iron Man (with working, lit battery pack), and Thing One and Thing Two.

The ballroom is decorated like the gardens at Versailles. Large, crystalline chandeliers cast soft lights all around, shining on the eggshell and petal pink fabrics of the tables and drapes. Bouquets of flower arrangements, full of pink and tangerine roses, are scattered throughout the room, lending a fairytale atmosphere to the party.

Louis and Zayn are standing next to buffet tables, piled high with hors d’oeuvres, in order to inspect the ballroom and the hundreds of guests present. Stationed around the periphery is the blue line of the Gotham City Police Department.

“Déjà vu all over again,” Louis says to Zayn.

Zayn laughs. “Lou, as long as you have to be here, you might as well enjoy it.”

“Yeah, right,” Louis replies. “Enjoy it.”

Louis’ white, vampire facial makeup matches Zayn’s zombie makeup. Louis is faintly sweaty under a velvet cape, smearing the few drops of fake blood dripping down the corner of his mouth. Likewise, Zayn’s blackened circles are ringed fuzzily around his eyes.

“They should really have better punch,” Louis says, sipping from a punch glass filled with a cherry-red liquid. “This stuff sucks.”

“Since you’re paying and I’m not,” Zayn replies, “it tastes pretty good to me. Next time, we’ll bring our own, eh, Lou?”

“Hmm, next time.” After a beat, Louis reflects, “Zaynie, d’you think we’re ever going to actually enjoy one party in our lives?”

Zayn laughs, his brown eyes crinkling, “Maybe you just come with the wrong dates,” he replies. “Louis, man, it's time for you to find the right guy. You’d have more fun if you weren't such a stick in the mud, and with a partner — me — who’s always loading you up with lethal weapons.”

“Hey!” Louis retorts. “I resent that. I'm fun.”

“Whatever,” Zayn says, picking up two cocktails from a passing tray. “I'm just saying, loosen up a little. You can mix work with a little pleasure, you know?”

“God,” Louis mutters. “Not you, too.”

“Sorry?” Zayn studies Louis for his meaning. “D’you say something?”

“Zayn, work is work,” Louis covers himself. “Pleasure is pleasure. Never the twain shall meet.”

“The philosophy of a navel-gazing vigilante,” Zayn rejoins, raising his glass. “If you ask me, the uptight look isn't great on you, Lou. Anyway, here’s a little liquid courage. May nothing happen tonight.”

“One can only hope,” Louis says, with a wry expression. “Here's to the best years of our lives. Carpe fucking diem!”

They clink glasses. Zayn winks at him and then takes a sip.

As the crowd gets larger, the music switches from the early evening’s classical and jazz ensembles to electronic dance music.

The DJ comes on the microphone.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!” he shouts, ramping up the crowd. “How’re we doing tonight!” The crowd cheers as the chandeliers dim overhead and stage lights come on, the neon blues and greens distorting the proportions of the room, creating a sense of vertigo. The DJ begins spinning some upbeat tropical house music and people begin to move towards the dance floor.

Louis looks across the room and spots a very familiar scene in the middle of the floor: a handsome young man scoping out an older, much wealthier woman. The man is wearing an impeccable, bespoke blue velvet tuxedo, with a midnight blue, sequined Venetian mask around his eyes. It’s hardly a disguise. His long curls, sharp eyebrows, and pink, well-shaped lips give him away immediately.

The woman is Marina Drost, dressed as Glinda, the Good Witch from the Wizard of Oz in a full, sparkling, sequined ball gown. She's wearing a tiara of white and pink diamonds; her body drips with enough jewelry for several minor European monarchies.

“Zayn,” Louis tips his head. “Bring the car around the back, will you?”

“What's up?”

“Don't know yet. Maybe nothing.”

Louis signals toward the middle of the floor, where Marina Drost and Edward Selley are standing. Zayn nods and takes off. Louis swings the vampire cape around to cover his face, and heads toward the duo.

Edward is just behind Marina Drost when Louis cuts in front of him. There's a brief flash of annoyance that this — person — has come between him and his target, but when he recognizes Louis behind his white make-up, Edward’s face brightens.

 _Good._ Louis is glad to see him too, despite the way their last meeting as Edward and Louis ended. Much has transpired since then.

“Having fun, Edward?” Louis shouts over the music.

“S’alright.”

“Here by yourself?” Louis asks.

“Not anymore,” Edward answers, winking, “now that you're here.”

Louis grins widely, the corners of his mouth making his eyes crease. He extends his hand, palm side up, inviting Edward to dance.

Edward might have darted a look toward Marina Drost, but then he takes Louis’ hand and is pulled toward the dance floor. The music starts with the bass thumping, then a line of melody starts, sung by a sweetly voiced male singer.

The song is uptempo and energetic. Soon the dance floor fills, with people bumping into each other and pushing the two of them closer together. Despite his misgivings, Louis is enjoying himself, and it seems as though Edward is, too. They dance without inhibition, grinning widely, bumping their bodies comfortably and without self-consciousness.

Louis takes Edward’s hand and tries to spin him, despite being the smaller of the two, and Edward goes awkwardly along, bending his long legs to duck under Louis’ arm. He loses his balance, slips a little, grabbing on to Louis’ elbow to steady himself. Edward laughs at his own clumsiness, blushing slightly, as Louis grins and pulls him up to fit his hand around Edward’s waist, supporting his slender frame. Edward turns to smile at Louis — and finds his face, suddenly, very close.

Although both are in costume, surrounded by others in costume, they have never felt more exposed. Despite having a mask and makeup, Edward and Louis have lost their disguises; they aren't Batman and the Cat. Their recognition of each other is intense and intimate. Louis knows those incandescent eyes, and Edward recognizes the soft hairs in Louis’ beard, the way they feel elsewhere on his body.

The darkened dance floor is illuminated only by flashes of light sweeping over the beautifully clothed bodies. Edward starts turning away, but Louis catches his hand and pulls him back, so they’re standing close, their faces almost touching.

Just like that, Edward leans in to kiss Louis. In the darkness, their warmth, their smell, their lips all feel familiar and intimate, so familiar that Louis aches inside. He closes his eyes and angles his head so he can be kissed properly, giving in to a certain selfishness, so he doesn't have to think, so he can just sink into the feeling, tuning everything else out for a second.

Edward kisses him lightly, tenderly, gently. Both of them are beyond the point of caring. They both know their roles, know this is wrong, unexpected and unplanned and just plain wrong, but both want the moment — want something else — more.

Then, breaking away, Edward slowly separates himself from Louis, inch by inch. He looks down and starts to walk away, but Louis pulls on his hand to come closer.

“Edward,” Louis says, “let’s get out of here.” His face is open and hopeful. “ _Carpe diem._ What do you say? Let’s seize the day and get out of here.”

Louis’ voice is almost drowned out by the loud, ambient noises around them, but Edward doesn't need to hear him. He doesn't even need to see Louis’ lips talking. His rigorous assassin’s training has sharpened his five senses to a fine point. He could feel a blade of grass wavering in the wind, could sense an enemy’s pulse rate increase by a couple of beats per minute. Right now, he senses Louis’s hammering heart, his mouth eagerly awaiting, his fingers curled in gentle anticipation.

Edward looks longingly at Louis; he holds Louis’ hand as if holding onto a life preserver. He squeezes it lightly, feeling the beauty of his fingers, his liveliness, the very essence of Louis in the calm confidence of his right palm. He feels Louis’ sinews traveling up his forearm, connecting to his agile biceps, the nerves relaying Edward’s hopes to Louis’ mind.

Edward realizes that Louis is giving him another way. He, alone, knows things about Edward — about Harry — that no one else knows. Louis smiles reassuringly and squeezes Harry’s hand.

Harry wants to go. He _wants_ to, with his whole being.

He wants to forget about who he is and who Louis is — and the roles they play. He wants to forget about the past, forget about the future and just be in the now. He wants to lose himself in those blue eyes and not think about the consequences.

But Harry remembers the Cupid’s warning to keep his focus. In his mind, her words ring like a clarion bell, louder than all the heartbeats in his body. Even as he looks into the brilliant icy blue of Louis’ eyes, he recalls the moment when he first arrived in Gotham, when the Cupid had shown up in the alley and shot the arrows into the men — that dark and lonely night when he had no one to turn to. He had been so lost. She had rescued him and given him a new life.

His fingers lingering on Louis, at last he separates himself and leans in.

“Door twelve,” Harry says, and then his blue velvet suit disappears into the throng of the crowd.

 

 

 

 

The city of [Gotham](https://13ways-of-looking.tumblr.com/post/165225276341/i-drew-a-line-for-you-fall-2017-1dreversebang)


	11. Chapter 11

 

Crestfallen, Louis stares after the blackness where Harry has disappeared. How can the feeling of happiness dissipate so fast? Louis can still taste Harry’s kiss on his lips, caring and sweet, and feel his scars in his own hands. He wants to peel off Harry’s mask, so that he can see him for who he is. He wants Harry to respond to him, to find him, to be found, and to answer to his name, _Harry Harry Harry._

After a moment, Louis shakes his head, as if to clear it, and tries to focus his thoughts on finding Marina Drost.

He has to admit, his heart is not in it. Let the Good Witch take care of herself, he thinks. She has an army of Oompa Loompas looking after her. He feels superfluous, theatrical in his vampire costume, like the world's most overdressed security guard. Everyone is on high alert, expecting the Cupid to make an appearance, and there is undeniable pressure for Batman to succeed this time. Like all high-stakes dramas, a minor slip can end with a major embarrassment.

Gotham is waiting for deliverance. He knows that some can't wait to see Batman fail, terribly and publicly, ripping away Gotham’s safety net.

Suddenly Louis feels tired. He knows Zayn has the Batmobile ready for him, and physical confrontation awaits him.

For all of his capabilities, Louis does not want to engage tonight. He simply wants to walk away, to go home, have Liam bring him a hot chocolate, and crawl into bed. He can almost feel the cool silkiness of his sheets and the peacefulness of the darkened bedroom. He would enjoy the welcomed silence, the protection from prying eyes, the cocoon of the Manor blocking out enemies with their whips and claws. And perhaps — perhaps, the darkness would shield him from the painful tenderness that inexorably pulls him forward.

His attention is suddenly drawn to a commotion breaking out near the entrance of the ballroom. In his peripheral vision, Louis sees four or five people — Gotham’s policemen, in uniform — rush in that direction. He glances around to see whether there are disturbances elsewhere, and then starts pushing his way toward the front.

He doesn't get far before he recognizes the vague swirl of pink vapor in the air near the doors and hears high-pitched screams coming from that direction. The crowd is losing it. Even people far away from the entrance are showing signs of panic, moving about chaotically, their voices raised in alarm. Louis can sense the throngs of people starting to stream toward the exits.

It seems that the DJ hasn’t yet recognized the situation. The dance music keeps going, and the lights are still dimmed. Recognizing that a stampede might be about to happen, Louis looks around for the exit nearest to him and tries the door handle.

It’s locked. He runs to the next closest door and pushes down on the bar. Locked again.

He sees that others are finding the same thing, and are starting to push and shove in panic. Louis notices that Harry is nowhere to be seen.

Harry knew; of course he knew. He stranded Louis here, to flounder, be trapped, be hurt.

Or, maybe, to rise to a challenge.

Louis feels the rush of hysteria intensify around him, and he battles internally with his own gnawing unease.

Harry played him, danced with him, kissed him, until his defenses were down. Until he became easy prey — a pawn. Sweat breaks out under his costume as he tries to reconcile what his brain is telling his heart.

Looking up, Louis sees a number on the door: 6. He flashes back to what Harry said earlier. This was the riddle, then — either his challenge or his betrayal.

Louis hears Zayn’s voice in his mind. _Take the bait._

When there's only one path, there’s only one direction.

Once again, he steels himself. His palms are sweaty and his throat constricted, and he takes a deep breath to slow down his heartbeats.

He knows now that he has a clue. Harry was either luring him or saving him. There is no time to lose. Despite his calm breathing, he can feel his heart hammering, the ringing inside his ears.

He sees people shoving each other to get out, pushing against the locked doors, shouting and crying. Running along the wall, Louis counts the doors, spaced every fifteen feet or so apart, checking the numbers printed on them. The pink vapor rises into the air and creeps above the crowd, toward the back of the room. He can see and hear the chaotic mess at the front of the ballroom, curtains coming off the walls, decorations being torn down, lights being smashed.

Door 12 is at the furthest end from the front entrance. His hands find the handle and push; it opens.

The door leads to a deserted, dimly lit hallway. Louis contemplates the situation and tries to decide whether he has time. The car and the Batsuit are outside, at least a block away, and there is simply no time for him to change. Louis Tomlinson, industry leader and eligible bachelor, is going to have to wing it, make a citizen's arrest.

He takes out his phone and to text Zayn.

_Outside door 12. I’m in pursuit._

**Dude. I’m just outside.**

Zayn’s text shoots back almost immediately. Louis can feel his urgency.

_No time._

**Not worth it. Let it go Lou.**

_Can’t. Gotham expecting me._

**No Lou. They’ll find out.**

_Have to, Z._

**They’re waiting for Batman, not you.**

_I am Batman._

**Listen, I'll pull the car closer. Wait for me. Don't do anythi–**

Louis shuts his phone off, turns it to silent, and tucks it in his trouser pocket. He gazes down the dark and silent corridor, his hands being his only weapons — his hands, a silk handkerchief, and maybe a credit card. He can only wreak damage if his enemy is a retail store.

The prospect of fighting without his Batman costume is stupidly dangerous, he realizes. Not only is he lacking his toys, but his identity might raise some unwanted connections. But in a way, Louis feels scarily exhilarated; he feels mortal and alive.

He comes to the end of the hallway, where it splits into left and right corridors. After checking it out quickly, he knows which corridor he is meant to take. The right side ends in darkness. At the far end of the left corridor is a rainbow-colored tunnel structure, a plastic play tunnel for kids, but big enough for an adult. It snakes toward a door exiting the hotel.

He stares at it for a moment without advancing. The rainbow colors are brilliantly joyful, as if mocking him. He takes off his vampire cape and folds it carefully on the ground; it’s real velvet, after all — real velvet for real gentlemen. He thinks of Zayn’s steampunk tea cup and his advice to stay civilized, and realizes that he left civilization a few chases ago.

“Come on, Batman,” a voice, barely audible, emanates from within the tunnel — a voice he can't forget, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he wants to escape it.

“I'm not costumed,” he answers.

There's a momentary pause, and then Louis hears a shuffling inside, a whispery scrape of the plastic rainbow fabric.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” the voice says. “Come on through.”

Louis tentatively walks through the entrance of the tunnel. He feels like a sacrificial lamb, the surface of his skin tingling with a dreadful, raw excitement, his lips cold, his senses painfully sharpened.

It’s more spacious inside than he’d imagined. He can stand almost upright, but because of the tunnel’s curvature and flexibility, it’s impossible to see even two feet ahead. He holds his hands in front of himself, protecting his face, and advances slowly.

He comes upon the Cat sitting on his heels, facing him, with his knees in front of him and his hands folded on top.

“Hello, Batman,” he says without any emotion whatsoever.

Louis stands above him.

“Kitty Cat,” he says.

He sits down opposite the Cat and stares into his lynx-like eyes, the same eyes he was just looking into only minutes ago, through a different mask.

The Cat is dressed in his black leather suit, the pliable, shiny leather hugging his every ridge and curve. His face is beautiful tonight, flushed pink, the full lips cherry red and perky, and his eyes large, dreamy, and dark green, reflecting the rainbow colors like an impressionist painting. A crown of lashes softly frame those mesmerizing eyes.

“What are you doing here, Cat?” Louis asks.

“The same as you,” the Cat replies stoically. “I'm doing my job.”

Louis sighs. He looks down at the Cat’s ensemble, and notices the belt with weapons, the bullwhip wrapped and tied to his waist, the boots. Marina Drost’s tiara is tied to his belt with a tight elastic fastener. He didn't come to play, that’s for damn sure.

“And?” Louis asks, pointing to the tiara. “You got what you came for?”

“Of course I did,” the Cat replies. “I always do. I don't make mistakes. I play to win.” He turns to Louis. “You know that, right? This isn't a game. I always play to win.”

Louis sees his placid, smug expression, his certainty of control.

“I can't let you escape, Cat,” Louis declares. “I don't make mistakes either, and we’re not in our safe space anymore.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” the Cat sneers, a sound both intoxicating and menacing. “Come get me.”

Louis reaches for the Cat’s face, and feels him jerk away, his arm already coming up to block. But Louis pulls the Cat toward himself and kisses him, unable to stop himself. He feels the Cat’s mouth open immediately, reciprocating his desire, kissing him back with real feeling. He knows it's a sort of defeat, with pandemonium happening outside, but he can't contain himself…

Louis suddenly feels a sharp, searing pain across his neck and jumps back. The Cat’s right hand is raised, his claw blades out, and he is on one knee, ready to pounce. Louis touches his neck and feels four thin, parallel cuts, his blood seeping down into his dress shirt. Though superficial, the cuts hurt him, almost as much as the thought behind it does. He scrambles to his feet, as does the Cat, and they keep a respectful, sparring distance.

“That’s a warning, Batman. Never do that again,” the Cat says. “Not like that. We have an agreement. Safe spaces only. Stick to it like an honorable person.”

“ _You’re_ talking about honor,” Louis challenges. “Of all people. You’re a thief who deceives and poisons others, and you talk about _honor?_ ”

“You don't know me,” the Cat says. “So don't lecture to me about honor, something you can’t even understand.”

“And you know all about it, don't you?” Louis shoots back. “Honor in the daylight, filth at night.”

“Really?” The Cat sneers. “Batman, you wish you knew just how filthy things could get. You haven't seen anything yet.” Louis sucks in a breath. “You want me, yet you can't bring yourself to admit it, and you stand there judging me. I could see that the first time you came to me, or should I say, _on me?_ ” Louis shudders visibly, reliving his desire for the Cat all over again. The Cat is right, about everything. “Seemed to enjoy it then, didn't you? You want me, and it's not just for sex. And I want to show you. I want — _you._ I’m honest about it. But you don't even have the courage to face it, do you?”

Louis bites his lip. What the Cat says is true. He has never wanted anything or anyone more. He wants him now. He wants the Cat’s submission, he wants the Cat under him.

“You’re a _joke,_ Batman,” the Cat says with emphasis on the last word. “You think you know everything about right and wrong. You're the judge and the executioner, aren't you, with your friends?” He paces, all the while keeping his eyes on Louis. “You have no idea how it is for everyone else. Be prepared for a big surprise, Batman. You're going to wonder how you and your friends lived so large and left nothing for the rest of us.”

From his belt, the Cat pulls out a small pink capsule, crushes it with one hand, and sprinkles it into the air. Too late, Louis notices that the Cat has one hand covering his nose and mouth. Already he can see the pink vapor in the air, inhale the sweet, chemical fragrance, and feel a stir in his abdomen shooting down to his groin. He realizes what the capsule contains, while simultaneously feeling the urge to press the Cat against the wall and… do things to him.

“Enjoy the fantasies, Batman,” the Cat says, tilting his head, “because that's all you’re gonna have.” Even as Louis reaches out for him, he is fleeing down the corridor, through the exit door.

Louis frowns and shakes his head, trying to waft the vapors away. He can feel a warm, carnal urge shoot up from his spine, filling his groin and traveling up to his neck, making him tremble. The sweet fragrance is driving him mad. He has to pull his hands back from touching himself.

He turns to chase after the Cat, even as he’s ripping his shirt off. As he pushes through the exit door, he unclasps his dress pants and throws them down, past the knees and then off. His erection is stiff and undisguised, and it's all he can do not to stop in his tracks, rip everything off, and start masturbating in the street.

He looks ridiculous, chasing after the Cat — now, literally his object of pursuit — in his black underwear tented with a stiff cock. He wants to wring the Cat’s neck, but he also wants to take him to bed and fuck him into the mattress, hear him pant and groan as he comes. Louis has never felt more exhilaratingly, erotically conflicted, never been so _alive._ His mind experiences a delusional sort of clarity.

The Batmobile pulls up with a screech. The passenger door flings open. Zayn is in the driver’s seat, his hands on the steering wheel.

“ _Holy party in the front, Batman!_ ” Zayn’s mouth falls open, both embarrassed and amused. “Shitballs, dude. What happened to you?”

“I was exposed to the potion,” Louis explains, cupping himself and getting into the car. “Stop laughing, you idiot! I _told_ you to work on an antidote!”

“Guess you’re happy to see me,” Zayn smirks. “Like, super duper happy.”

“Shut _up,_ Zayn! Did you see which way he went?”

The car door clamps shut just as a black motorcycle roars past them. Zayn hits the gas pedal and Louis ducks into the backseat to change into something a little less comfortable. He wipes off his facial makeup roughly, getting what he can. Louis can't help palming himself and rubbing his erection, even as he struggles to keep himself professional in front of Zayn. He consciously tries to slow down his erratic breathing, but is nonetheless breathing heavily, turned on in spite of everything. Meanwhile, blood from his neck seeps into Batman’s costume.

Louis’ mind is swimming with images of the Cat’s languid, post-orgasmic face, his lips sweaty and slightly parted, and his hands playing with his come-streaked cock, with his knees spread apart invitingly. Louis can't help letting out a small groan.

“I warned you — ” Zayn starts to say.

“Is he alright?” Liam’s electronically amplified voice sounds through the speakers. “Are you okay, Lou?”

“Not _now,_ you two!” Louis says, slightly haunched over. “I'm in some agony here.”

“Um,” Zayn snickers into the monitors. “Liam, Louis appears to be worried _stiff,_ or in a _hard_ predicament, if you get my drift.” He can't help but snort. “Keep it together, Lou. If you need, there are some bat-shaped tissues in the — ”

“Will you _shut up,_ Zayn! _Drive!_ ”

They zoom through the streets, following the motorcycle. Now and then, it seems to stop and wait, and then start going again, weaving in and out of traffic.

“Get closer,” Louis says, now almost completely dressed except for his mask. “I'm going up top.”

“Oh no, you don't,” Zayn says. “Not in your delicate condition.” His eyes travel down to Louis’ groin.

“Then what are we doing here, Zayn? _Joyriding?_ ” Louis glares sharply at him. “I'm going up.”

“Batman,” Zayn says, as Louis adjusts his mask. “You're gonna get yourself killed. Let's go home this time and chill out, watch some romcoms on Netflix or something.”

“He’s going left!” Liam’s voice announces. “Down Parnassus Boulevard!”

“Get closer!” Batman ignores Zayn. “We’re losing him.”

The motorcycle turns just ahead, zigzagging through traffic. The Cat looks back, then slows down, almost as if he wants to be caught.

“What’s he doing?” Zayn asks, glancing at Batman. “He's letting us catch up.”

Batman shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I need him — I mean, I need to catch him. Can't you go faster?”

“What’s he playing at?”

Zayn follows as the Cat accelerates again.

“He’s slowing down again,” Liam’s voice says. “Waiting at Parnassus and Third.”

“He’s teasing, obviously. It’s a fucking cat and mouse game to him,” Batman replies. “He’s waiting for me.”

Zayn snaps his head around, but Batman isn't joking. His nose beads in sweat, his eyes are dark and dilated, and his lips are open, swollen, and dry. Zayn turns his eyes back on the road.

“So,” Zayn asks, “you wanna go ahead, right? You sure?”

“Zayn?” Liam asks expectantly. “How does he look? Is he fit to go? Is he okay?”

Batman looks away. He can feel the Cat inside himself, the wild, uncontrolled essence of him. Part of him likes it. _A lot._

“Keep going,” he says, his voice dry.

Batman connects a grappling hook to an anchoring point on the inside of the car. Then, holding on to the rope loosely, he lifts himself through the car’s retractable roof and onto the top of the car.

Zayn edges the car closer, until they're tailing the motorcycle. Batman sees the pointed ears of the Cat, his muscular, broad shoulders tapering to his slim waist and firm bottom, straddling the motorcycle. He feels an impossible, relentless desire so acute that it hurts. He’s actually wincing in pain.

He pulls on the rope so that he can slide down the front of the car onto the hood. The Cat looks back at him.

_Is he grinning?_

Batman pushes off the rope, propelling himself onto the back of the motorcycle. He grabs on to the Cat and straddles the motorcycle behind him. His hands wrap around the Cat tightly, and he smells the Cat’s scent — a mixture of adrenaline, flowers, and sex. His senses are so erotically charged that he can practically taste him.

Impulsively, he bites the Cat’s shoulder, hard, almost hard enough to draw blood through the leather.

“Fuck,” the Cat growls, pleased. “Is that how it's going to be? Are we playing dirty now?”

Batman presses his erection into the Cat’s back, stiff and needy. The Cat’s backside is firm and inviting, even as he squirms through the pain.

Batman reaches around to palm the Cat’s groin and finds a semi-hard cock, which twitches under his touch. The Cat cranes his neck so that Batman can have access. Batman kisses the angle of his jaw and then leaves a savage bite below, sucking on it hard enough for the Cat to shout out. Somehow, he still manages to keep the bike upright and flying through the crowded streets.

“No!” Batman yells over the roar of the motorcycle’s engine, “We’re not playing anymore. We’re done playing.”

The Cat jerks the handlebar of the bike hard to the right, making Batman lose his balance, tilting off the seat slightly. Batman grabs what material he can on the Cat’s body, finally hanging onto his belt. The Cat elbows Batman’s hand with a fist, again and again, trying to dislodge him. Batman hangs tight, rights himself, and glances back, making sure that the Batmobile is still following. He can only wonder what Zayn is thinking.

With his arms wrapped around the Cat’s waist, Batman quickly unties the diamond-encrusted tiara from the Cat’s belt. The Cat struggles to regain it, too late.

“I don't lose,” Batman yells into the Cat’s ear. “You understand, Kitty Cat? I _win._ Always. Too bad for you. Don't you ever forget that.”

“Don't be cocky, Little Mouse!”

The Cat smashes his back against Batman, and then his hand reaches around to grab Batman by his belt, and jerks him off the motorcycle with an immense force. Batman is flung wide without warning, soaring clumsily toward the city’s sidewalks.

Batman lands with a sickening _crash!_ in a heap of trash on the sidewalk, still gripping the tiara in his hand. The sharp impact leaves him breathless, in shocking pain all over.

The Batmobile screeches to a stop right beside him. Curious onlookers have started to form a crowd around the battered superhero, lying on top of a pile of garbage.

Batman slowly gets up, brushes dirty scraps and vegetable peelings off his body, and starts limping toward the car.

“He has something in his hand!” A person in the crowd shouts.

“It’s a tiara!” Another person says. “He got it back from the Cat guy!”

A small cheer goes up.

“Hooray, Batman!”

“You did it!”

“Batman’s back!!”

The crowd is getting larger and more excited. Batman raises his aching arm at an awkward angle, to show the tiara in his hand.

“Go home, everyone,” he says, weary and hurt, in more ways than one. “This will be returned to its rightful owner.”

“Thank you, Batman!”

“Batman! Batman! Batman!” The crowd chants fervently, growing in numbers and volume.

The driver’s side door glides open with an empty seat waiting for him. Zayn has excused himself to the darkness of the backseat. He can see pedestrians running toward them now, trying to get a better look at their celebrity superhero.

Batman quickly gets in the car and pulls the door shut. He inhales slowly, taking a quick inventory of his bodily aches. He hears Zayn take a conspicuous sniff from the backseat. Then, shifting into drive, he eases the car away from the gathering crowd.

“So, um,” Zayn says.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Batman says. “It was the potion, Zayn. Let's go home.”

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 _And you know_  
_For you, I'd bleed myself dry_  
_For you, I'd bleed myself dry_

 

 

“You sure you're alright?” Zayn asks, climbing awkwardly out of the Batmobile.

They’ve arrived in the underground garage of the Batcave, and Louis has peeled off Batman’s mask. It dangles from the back of his neck like a dead bird. His hair stands straight up, and his face is a sheet of dried sweat and grime, tinged a sickly salmon pink.

“Yeah,” Louis says, eyes glazed. “Maybe. I don't know. Think I'll go straight to bed.”

“Hey, Louis?” Zayn touches his arm.

“Yeah?”

“The amount of potion you got won't kill you,” Zayn says, nodding at his face. “You know that, right? It’s a tiny dose. You probably won't remember a thing in the morning. So I’d suggest, maybe, letting off some steam.”

“What are you talking about?” Louis asks expectantly.

They pass through the Batcave. The bank of computer monitors are on, and the desks appear neat and organized, but Liam is nowhere to be seen. Zayn does a quick inspection but sees nothing out of the ordinary. He turns to Louis with a mischievous grin.

“Maybe a wank marathon,” Zayn says, pointedly. “I mean — you could use it.”

“What?” Louis feigns shock, but he would like nothing better right now than masturbating himself to oblivion. “I think I can decide for myself, thanks, Zayn!”

“Whatever. Suit yourself,” Zayn says. “But if you want a good night’s sleep, I'm just saying. That might take care of it.”

“You and your advice, I swear…” Louis’ hand drifts down to cover his crotch. He's tired and extremely horny, a bad combination. He can barely walk in a straight line.

“Dude,” Zayn says. “You're stressed out. You're gonna explode.”

“Can we stop talking about it, Zaynie. I'm tired.”

Louis shakes his head, appalled, but also helplessly charged. His cock was still hard even after being thrown off the bike; hightailing straight to the Batmobile did nothing to disguise his relentless erection. Now he roughly shoves his dick down with one hand, only to feel an urge to touch himself again, to pull himself through his suit. He sees Zayn watching him sympathetically and almost doesn't give a fuck what Zayn sees.

Louis needs to get out of there, _fast._

They climb the steps up to the main floor of the Manor and arrive through the portal in the tiny sitting room. Louis, still clutching Marina’s tiara, shoves it into Zayn’s hands.

“Can you make sure nothing happens to this, Z? I'm afraid I won't be able to remember where I put it in the morning.”

Zayn takes it from him, eying him worriedly. “You want me to stay with you? You don't look great, Louis, to be honest.”

“No, no, I'm good,” Louis insists, reassuring no one. “I'm just beat. Straight to bed. Promise.”

Louis is exhausted, but he’s also itching to be alone. All the way home, he’s been thinking about the three-personed Cat: first, Cat the criminal, then Edward the enigma, and finally Harry the elusive lover — all of them combined in a swirl of dreams and desires.

Every time he thinks he's approaching the center of the mystery, he’s repelled further away. Louis can't understand why he's alternately being drawn in and pushed away, whether the conflict he feels is within himself or in Harry, too. He wants to get to Harry’s center, one knotty scar at a time. He wants to feel Harry’s pain, to bleed for Harry, if that's what he wants. Harry is the missing piece in a puzzle, and he wants to complete it.

Louis knows he's venturing into something unknown, something potentially destructive and deadly for him. For all he knows, Cupid could be the architect behind this elaborate design to take him down. Maybe it's the potion talking to him, but something feels off about the whole thing. He can't help feeling — can't help wishing — that Harry has gone rogue and has a plan of his own.

“By the way,” Zayn is telling him, “I'm going to go peek in on Liam. It's weird that he didn't answer us, don't you think?” As they neared the Manor, Liam’s communication became more sparse until he cut out altogether.

“Hmm. Maybe.” Louis thinks it’s strange, too, but he doesn’t want to jump to conclusions.

“It’s late, but not that late. Think he fell asleep?”

“I don't — don't know, Zayn,” Louis replies unsteadily. He adjusts himself once more. “Let me know, yeah? I'm — uh — going to bed.”

“Will do.” Zayn gives Louis one last, wary glance. Louis is left by the kitchen door as Zayn heads toward the library.

Louis’ exhaustion, and the fact that he can’t stop thinking about his dick, make him oblivious to the drone hovering above the roof of the kitchen. Nor can he see the motorcycle parked behind the rose bushes in the back of the Manor, a pair of extravagant black wings jutting from the handlebars.

He drags himself up the immense, wide staircase of the Manor, down the dark hallway to his bedroom in the corner of the house overlooking the southern gardens.

Louis opens the door to his moonlit room, barely registering the familiar silhouettes of the furniture inside. With one hand already tugging on his crotch, he closes the door softly and fumbles for the light switch in the dark.

As soon as he turns on the light, Louis sees him standing there, tall, lean, dressed in black.

There's a light smear of white makeup on his cheek and neck, where Louis had kissed him.

For a millisecond, Louis thinks he must be hallucinating, conjuring him out of his deranged mind. But then the smell of jasmine and salt wafts over, and suddenly he snaps to, his senses wide awake, his body moving of its own accord.

He moves into the space of the Cat and, without a word, roughly pulls his neck in and kisses him. The Cat puts his hands into Louis’ messy hair and clings to him, their mouths open for each other, hungry as a pack of wolves.

Louis parts his lips and licks into the Cat’s mouth, as warm and sweet as honey. The Cat allows Louis to enter him like a sphere of water yielding to light, allowing the rays to bend and transform inside.

They are both changing, from two separate creatures into a single being. Louis pushes, the Cat yields, their breaths becoming synchronized, their arms drawing each other closer, their legs tangled and wrapped around each other.

Louis pushes the Cat steadily backward into the room, and then realizes his own body is covered in grime. How does the Cat smell so delicious all the time? No matter. Louis feels a sudden impulse to get clean. He's a bundle of impulses, his inhibitions fleeing like clothes on prom night.

“I need a shower, Kitty Cat,” he says roughly. “I stink.”

But Louis doesn't back away. Instead, he advances on the Cat, licking a broad stripe on his cheek, then wrapping his arm around his lower back, and sucking a bite into his jaw, grime or no grime. The Cat helps detach Batman’s mask, and then strip off the top of his suit. The blood on his neck has seeped into the shoulder of the suit, drying in an amorphous patch on his shoulder. The four parallel, raised, red lines on his neck sting like hell. Louis sees the Cat looking at them with some satisfaction, and he's more aroused than ever. He presses his erection on the Cat and ruts sloppily.

“I like the way you smell,” the Cat growls. Louis paws him like a predator, grabbing his shoulders and waist and handling him roughly.

“Oh? Why?” Louis digs his fingers into the Cat’s suit, trying to rip it apart with his bare hands, trying to feel flesh. His head is swimming drunkenly, but his skin feels alive, and every nerve in his cock is tingling, itching for action.

“You smell like power,” the Cat says. “Like work. Like anger and control. Like you could rip phone books apart and still fuck as softly as an angel.”

“Is that what you want? To be fucked by an angel?” Louis’ hands travel to the Cat’s ass and part the cheeks, forcefully, very un-gentleman-like, and his fingers press into the crease. He shoves hard against the Cat, pushing him off-balance. “Is that why you're here?” His right hand digs in, trying to find the Cat’s softest point, to stimulate and ravish. “To be opened like a book? Fuck. I want to read you, Cat. Want every story.”

“I can open for you, Batman,” the Cat purrs. His hands join at the wrists above their faces, as if he's asking to be handcuffed. “Like a book. Every page a new story. I'm right here. Waiting for you to dip in.”

Louis pulls away and shakes his head. He's not thinking clearly. _What the fuck is going on?_ He’s not himself. No, he needs to stop. He pushes the Cat roughly away from himself. Even that hard shove breaks him; he wants, wants, _wants._

The Cat pulls Batman’s suit roughly back toward himself, and then slowly drags it off. As he works the tights off, he lingers on Louis’ erection and gives it a half-kiss, half-swallow.

“What are you afraid of, Batman?” the Cat whispers. “Fuck me already. You won't remember any of this. There are no consequences.”

“No. No! Damn it!” Louis paces away, and then just as quickly, he spins around and presses the Cat against the wall, forcing his tongue into the Cat’s mouth, tasting every square corner of him. His erection presses into the Cat’s groin and he doesn't give a shit anymore. He just wants to get it over with, to fuck the Cat until they both come their brains out, until they're covered in each other’s fluids, and their faces and hair and bodies taste of it, and the Cat’s mouth is wrapped around his come-stained dick and sucking it down.

“Come on,” Louis is ripping off the Cat’s costume. “Come here, come on. Come in with me. Want to fuck you under the water. Want to fuck…”

They're in front of the bathroom door, the light illuminating their sharp, handsome profiles. Louis’ erection is unmistakable, hard and red, the veiny undersurface a darker crimson, and he pulls the Cat toward the door with a drunken force.

“Get your suit off, Cat. Come in here,” Louis commands, his voice both urgent and brutal.

Realizing what Louis wants him to do, the Cat suddenly hesitates, resisting Louis’ grasp.

“No,” he protests, decidedly. “No, Batman. Not there.” His face is unreadable, his eyes penetrating, his lips set in a firm line.

Startled, Louis stands, studying him. “What did you say? Are you disobeying me?”

“No, Batman. I'm not. I just — I can't go in the shower with you. I… don't like water.”

Louis laughs, sure that he's joking. “Yeah, right.” He tugs on the Cat impatiently. “Come on then, silly.”

“No.” The Cat turns on Louis, who’s convinced he's playing, and says sternly, “Let me go.”

“Get your suit off,” Louis says lightly, trying to coax him. Then, more firmly, “Cat, get the damn suit off.”

The Cat replies louder, more firmly, “No. I won't. I can't, Louis. Let go of me!”

Louis stops tugging and notices his change of tone. Even in his hypersexual state, Louis senses the Cat’s heightened anxiety.

His demeanor softening, Louis asks, “Don’t you... take baths?”

The Cat looks down and away, his face grim and his hands trembling. “Not with other people. I can't explain it, not now. No water. I just can't…” He sucks a breath in, ready to run. “It's a red for me.”

Louis notices the rigid grimace in his face, his eyes frozen with nerves, his mouth pinched shut. The Cat is feeling so much that he's shuddering. Louis softens and draws back, watching his Cat going through this uncharacteristic anxiety, and, knowing who the Cat really is, Louis is moved beyond words.

“Kitty Cat,” Louis asks. “What's going on?”

“Another time,” the Cat answers. He's looking away, arms crossed, with two fingers on his chin, almost touching his lips. “I'll tell you another time. It's just something I — I — ”

“Hey,” Louis interrupts, reaching one hand out. “Hey, it’s okay. Come here.” His fingers graze the Cat’s wrists, brushes them gently. “It’s okay. Don't worry. You're safe.”

“It's red, Louis,” the Cat says, his voice on the verge of panic. “An absolute red. I can't.”

The Cat pulls his body back toward the door frame. Unconsciously, his hands have drifted in front of his chest, in a boxer’s stance. His face is still turned away, reliving some terrible past. It tears at Louis, makes him want to punish whoever made him feel like this.

Louis lets him have a moment, and then pulls his elbows closer, and wraps his arms around the Cat’s trembling torso. The Cat doesn't return the embrace, instead standing paralyzed, his face turned away, shivering as if he's cold.

“You're okay,” Louis whispers. He strokes the Cat’s back soothingly, up and down. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don't want to do.”

He holds the Cat like a spooked creature, tenderly respecting his space. They stand for a few minutes, the Cat rigid, Louis soothing him with light strokes and gentle words. Louis wants to build a shell around the Cat so he never feels afraid again. Not like that.

When he’s ready, the Cat pushes Louis away.

“I'm sorry,” he says with rigid self-control, avoiding Louis’ eyes. “No water. It's a red for me. I can't compromise on it.”

Louis nods. He says softly, “It's okay. I'll just be a minute, then. Quick rinse, okay? Wait for me?”

The Cat nods and walks away toward the bed.

Louis enters the bathroom, turns on the shower, waits for the warm water to rush down, and then closes the glass shower door. He pours shampoo on his hair and washes it clean, feeling more human as the patches of dried, sticky sweat are washed away and a scent of citrus and pine replaces his grungy odor.

He wonders about this strange phobia against water. It wasn't acting, and it wasn't a trick. Some trauma had happened to the Cat that made him react like this, his whole body rebelling against it, ready to run or fight over it. It puzzles Louis and makes him want to pick at it, prod it until the Cat relinquishes his secret.

Louis pours liquid cleanser on his body, feels the silky oiliness run down his torso. His cock is still hard, and he desperately wants release, but somehow, now he just wants to know this other person; he wants everything he has to offer — everything he’s willing to give. Louis washes up and cleans every inch of his body, being sure that every remnant of soap rinses off completely.

When he comes out of the bathroom, toweling his hair dry, he’s relieved to see that the Cat is waiting for him, sitting at the edge of the bed with his suit hanging around his waist, his hands placid in his lap and his mask still on. His tattoos are vivid, the swallows dance on either side of his chest; the butterfly seems to lift off his body and fly toward Louis.

Louis notices something else, too: the Cat’s holding something black in his hands. Maybe they're handcuffs, he thinks, remembering the Cat’s gesture from before. Once he’s closer, however, he realizes it’s a leather collar. Louis wraps the towel around his waist, his erection, harder than ever, pushing the terry cloth away from his body. He takes the collar from the Cat and inspects the delicate piece, with a thin clasp already adjusted for size, and the cut-out of a feline silhouette in the middle. Louis thinks he's never seen anything as daintily pretty. He hands it back, touching the Cat on the arm.

“Kitty Cat,” he asks, “you okay?”

The Cat gives a small nod, but looks away quickly.

“I want to be sure you're okay,” Louis says. “Or we’re not doing this.”

He has to struggle not to touch the Cat, who is beyond beautiful, his chin sharp, his lips so perky and pink, his tattoos like sirens beckoning Louis.

The Cat is giving Louis an offer to be collared. Louis’ heart skips a bit, just thinking about it. His senses are compelling him to touch him, but his head restrains him like a vice.

 _Wait,_ it says. _Wait_. _Not yet. Be patient._

_But I want..._

_No. Wait._

“You're under the spell of the poison,” the Cat states. “You can't help it. You're going to. We’re going to.”

He looks up at Louis with his beguilingly bright, large, green eyes.

“Is that why you released the poison?” Louis asks him. “Cat, what are you trying to do to me? Why? You don’t have to use the potion. Not on me.”

“No?”

“No. I — I want to be with you,” Louis says. He pauses before adding, “I already did. Long before the potion.”

“You did?”

Louis sits down next to him. Careful not to touch the Cat, he shoves his hands under his thighs and sits on them, bending over slightly at the waist because of the strain in his groin. He feels his head clearing. The wild impulse to reach orgasm has calmed the tiniest amount, and he feels his restraint winning ever so slightly. Mostly, he's starting to feel tired.

“I’m completely beguiled by you. I want to know you, Cat. You're a puzzle and a challenge,” Louis explains, slowly, patiently, sitting on his hands to stop their itchy need to touch. “Of course I want you, I always did, ever since you first wrapped your whip around me.” His voice breaks, barely a whisper by the time he’s finished. He looks at the Cat, searching his face, but the Cat still can't meet his eyes. “You're irresistible to me. In every way.”

“Then why not act on it?” the Cat asks quietly. “You could've had me a long time ago.”

“You’re a goddamn impossible riddle, my Kitty Cat,” Louis says through gritted teeth, rocking back and forth. Obvious through the thick, white towel, his erection is as hard as steel just talking about the Cat; he's in agony. “I fight criminals. That's what I do. It should be so easy, but it's not easy with you.”

“No,” the Cat acknowledges. He slides closer to Louis, his thigh pressing against Louis’ wrist. Biting hard on his lip, Louis feels the heat of their contact searing through his skin, pulling at him, making him want even more than he already does.

“No, it's not,” Louis sighs. He denies his urge even to hold the Cat’s hand, instead, standing up and walking over to a chair, just to get away so he can think clearly. His knuckles turn white from gripping the back of the chair. “It's _impossible._ ”

“Why?”

“Because!” Louis raises his voice, glancing up with some agitation. “Because of who you are!” Louis clamps his lips, then opens his mouth but can’t talk. After a moment, he frowns, and then just spits it out. “Because you're not the Cat, and you're not Edward.” Louis gathers all his courage. “I know who you are. I… _know_.”

The Cat, his eyes focused in the distance, doesn't answer right away. From his silence, Louis feels he has been expecting this discussion.

Finally, the Cat says, “About the potion, Louis.”

“Yeah?”

“It was to find out what you know,” the Cat says, plainly. He gives Louis a guilty look.

“What do you mean?”

“The potion was to find out how much you know, how much you remember,” the Cat answers. He struggles to find the words, articulating each one slowly. “I had my suspicions, Louis, but I had to be sure. I'm sorry I had to do it this way.”

“Why didn't you just ask me?” Louis turns toward him, still battling his instincts to simultaneously pounce on the Cat and drag him down to the Commissioner’s office.

Looking down, the Cat shakes his head. “Maybe I was afraid you wouldn't remember. Maybe because none of this is supposed to mean anything,” he says. “There's no such thing as love, is there? Feelings only deceive us. Love shouldn't… it doesn't exist. In the morning you won't remember any of this. It'll all be gone.”

“We can go back to killing each other like good professionals, you mean?” Louis intends it to be a joke, but it comes out sad, forlorn.

The Cat nods. “You won't remember it.”

“But _you will,_ ” Louis insists. “Cat, don't lie to yourself. Be honest with your feelings. You're not tricking me; you're trying to trick yourself. And you know it's not true. It does exist.”

“What does?”

The Cat looks so beautiful that it hurts. His face is a portrait of pain, hope, and indecision.

“Love,” Louis replies.

Louis wants to take hold of him and have him, all of him. Always. Forever.

But he doesn't. Instead, Louis walks further away, to the window at the periphery of his room. The gibbous moon is casting its ghostly glow on the southern gardens, the paths seeming darker than an unfulfilled wish. He grips the curtains tightly with both hands. Everything seems more vivid, more sensual and real than ever. He wonders how he has the strength to walk over here. He feels only need and want, in his body as well as his heart.

“Cat,” Louis says, his back to him, “listen to me. We don’t have to be our pretend selves. We can start over.”

“You can give up being Batman, and I don't have to be the Cat?” His voice sounds small — meek, almost.

Louis turns to look at him. “Yes.”

“It’s too late for that,” the Cat says. “You're speaking in fantasies. I _am_ the Cat. I work with the Cupid. We have too much history. I can't change that.”

“You _can_ choose,” Louis says, sincerely. “I would stop being Batman, for you. I want you to — be safe, Cat. Goddamn it. I just want you safe. Don't hurt anymore. Never again.”

“No,” the Cat retorts. “You _don't._ You _can't._ Gotham’s waiting for you, Batman. The next criminal mastermind is waiting for you. And I can't leave the Cupid. It’s impossible. _We’re_ impossible.”

“Then why are you here?” Louis says, spinning around. He marches toward the Cat with urgent fury. “I can't separate my feelings for you from what I have to do. Don’t tell me that you can.”

“I can,” the Cat replies, tentative and unsure. “Of course I — can. There isn’t any — ”

“No,” Louis stops him. He moves to stand in front of the Cat. With a steady hand, he reaches into the Cat’s mask, and gently begins to pry it off, stretching the leather around the eyes and lifting it away. The Cat’s eyes track Louis’ hands as if he were a magician, unveiling something both miraculous and terrifying.

His mask is lifted free. His curls unfurl loosely about his face, flattened at the top from the mask’s pressure, but wavy below. Louis notices just how bright his eyes are, how luminous his skin, how wide and lovely his lips, how complete his face looks — how much better when wholly revealed.

“Tell me _now,_ ” Louis says to him. “Tell me it doesn't mean anything to you.”

“You wouldn't hurt me,” Harry asks him, his face unexpectedly young, fresh, and hopeful. “Would you, Louis?”

“No,” Louis shakes his head. “Never. I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because I prayed for you to come back,” Louis answers. He touches Harry’s cheek with gentle wonder. “Because I've been waiting for you, Harry. For so, so long.”

Their eyes meet. Harry’s head shudders just a few millimeters, and the corner of his lip pushes down for a second, as if he were uttering a silent cry. His chest suddenly feels heavy.

Standing up, Harry runs his fingers through Louis’ damp hair. He gazes at him tenderly, acknowledging all the years they spent apart, the loneliness of being Louis Tomlinson, or Batman, or merely the one who got left behind. Louis responds, his hands coming around Harry’s waist, and they stand holding each other for a long time.

“I'm so sorry, Louis,” Harry says, craning his face into Louis’ neck, inhaling him.

Louis feels his body shaking. Everything he knows is being confirmed, the moment is real, and he has no control any more. It's real. Harry’s real. It's all real.

“I’m sorry I left you,” Harry is saying. “I had to go. I had to find my life. I was dying little by little.”

“God, I prayed for you,” Louis says, holding him tighter. “I wanted you to be okay. I missed you so much, Harry. I thought about you every night. For years. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Me too.”

“I was in love with you,” Louis murmurs. “I loved you even though you weren’t here. You were the one, Harry. You’re still the one. No one else can compare.”

“I loved you, too,” Harry says in return. “More than life itself. That part of me died when I left. There's been no one else who’s mattered. It was always you.”

They stand in silence, feeling the warmth and softness of every part coming together, their bodies, their minds, their lost past mending like an uncovered treasure.

“What a fucked up way to meet, though,” Louis smiles wistfully. “A goddamned catastrophic way.”

To answer him, Harry turns and kisses him, with a hint of innocence and heat that seems to trigger an urge. Louis can't help bringing his hand around to cup Harry’s neck, despite everything in his mind telling him to stop.

“Why?” he mutters, his lips tickled by the fine hairs on Harry’s upper lip, the softness of them stealing away his self-control. “Why us?”

Harry licks and nibbles Louis’ lips. Louis keeps kissing him, deeper and harder. There's a sheen of sweat on Harry’s cheek that Louis wants to turn into a river, he wants Harry to sweat and cry and beg. Louis should stop. He can't stop. Harry is a canyon into which Louis is falling, and he keeps falling, a runaway train crashing into the abyss. He backs Harry up into the bed until Harry sits down on its edge.

Louis bends and kisses the swallow on the right side of his chest. Harry cradles his head with one hand, stroking his damp hair, while his fingers play with Louis’ cheek. Louis moves to the other swallow and kisses it, too, then finds the notch at the base of Harry’s neck, places a kiss and follows it up vertically, ending at the Adam’s Apple where his collar would be. Louis sucks lightly there, watching Harry’s eyes flutter and roll back, his mouth cleave open. Harry presses Louis’ neck, so the pressure on his Adam’s apple increases, and his breath hitches.

“Jesus, Harry,” Louis pants against his neck. “Do you want this — this collar, want it on?”

Harry nods, his hand on Louis’ cheek. “Yes, Louis. I love that. When you say my name.”

“Harry.” Louis pushes his lips against Harry, letting his taste diffuse into his mouth. “ _Harry._ ”

Louis stands upright and clasps the collar around Harry’s neck, and then steps back to admire his handiwork. Harry’s hand comes up to touch the edge of the collar, lingering on the pussycat cut-out, and gently presses on his own Adam's apple, exposed through the hole. Harry inhales and closes his eyes, his chest rising. A small sigh escapes from his throat.

He's absolutely enchanting, as vulnerable as an open blossom. He glows with joy, his contentment clear. It makes Louis feel weak, his legs threatening to buckle under the pressure of knowing Harry could so easily be his, if only he would allow himself to feel, to leave what he knows behind. To move into an uncertain future with Louis by his side.

With steady pressure from his hand, Louis pushes Harry down on the bed so that he’s on his back, his legs hanging over the edge. Louis kisses his nipple and bites the skin, drawing the areola up in the air, then letting it snap back down. Harry moans and touches Louis on the side of his waist.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Harry answers. “Yeah, good, Louis.” He pushes his groin up against Louis, who rips off the rest of Harry’s costume in a matter of seconds. The tattoos on his hips and legs pop out like the black ink of a coloring book, and Louis wants his tongue to be the crayon, filling them all in.

“Harry…” Louis says.

“Please, Louis,” Harry answers. “I want…” His seductive eyes are full of longing, and Louis can't stop himself any more.

“Harry,” he says. “I need to know. Tell me. Tell me how you feel. The truth.” He kisses Harry’s belly, then mouths the tip of his cock. “It's okay if it’s just sex. I just need to know.”

“I —ugnh!” Harry squirms as Louis wraps his warm mouth around him. “It does mean something. It’s everything. I feel… I feel it all. I feel you. You mean so much to me.” His deep, husky voice breaks with the pain of it, the cost of the admission palpable, nearly disabling.

Louis stops what he’s doing and looks up at Harry, at his large, open eyes, his lips half-parted. Harry gives barely a nod, and he runs his fingers into Louis’ hair, curling it around his fingers. Louis leans into Harry’s hand, and then looks at Harry again, who gives him another brief nod.

“You are special to me,” Harry confirms, again. “It's not just sex. You’re _everything_ to me, Louis, my nightingale, my star.”

Louis knows this moment is passing, and he's forgetting it even as it happens. He thinks about tomorrow, when he might never remember Harry’s words, and he feels both grateful for this moment, and angry at its passing. He swallows back tears and moves away from Harry’s inviting body.

“You mean it?”

Harry nods, his hand on Louis’ cheek.

Louis thinks, and makes a resolution. “On your tummy,” Louis orders.

Harry smiles at him, and then complies, turning around so he can lie on his belly. He glances around at Louis, and reaches his hand back. Louis gives him a reassuring squeeze, and watches, his heart breaking, as Harry smiles again and squeezes his hand back.

Louis puts a possessive hand on his back and pushes him into the bed, revelling in the solidity of Harry’s body, the certitude of his curves.

“Harry,” Louis hesitates, “okay to go? You're sure?”

“Yes, Lou,” Harry answers, his voice strong. “Nothing is going to hurt me. Not with you.”

“Not with me, Harry,” Louis says. “Never. You'll be safe. We can stop any time. I won't let anything hurt you.”

“Then I'm good,” Harry answers.

“Keep your hands above your head,” Louis orders. Harry obeys, his right hand holding the wrist of his left, so they are hooked together.

Louis walks to his Batsuit on the ground, and removes the grappling gun from the belt. He also detaches the dagger, and brings them both to the bed.

“Stay still, Harry. You're going to hear a loud noise. Remember, I won't hurt you.”

With a loud bang, Louis shoots the grappling gun into the bedroom wall, just in front of the headboard. Harry jumps with the sound, but he maintains position, hands together above his head.

“Gonna tie you up,” Louis says, feeling a shiver of excitement building in his belly. “Your color?”

Without a pause, Harry answers, “Green.”

Louis takes the rope trailing from the hook and secures it around Harry’s wrists, tying double knots so the rope doesn't dig into his skin. When he’s done, he cuts the rope with the dagger.

“Spread your legs,” Louis orders. “Color?”

“Green,” Harry answers without hesitation, a smile in his voice as he says, “As green as jealous angels.”

Louis’ heart lurches at Harry’s reply. He touches the base of Harry’s spine, and allows his hands to drift down, cupping his buttocks, one after the other. He trails his hand inside Harry’s thighs and nudges them apart, caressing the surface of his skin with reverence. He bends and kisses Harry’s back, the swell of his ass, the inside of his thighs. Louis feels Harry relax and spread his legs apart, and he moves closer still, kissing the skin behind his balls, as close as possible to his entrance. He feels Harry wink his muscles. Louis places the lightest of kisses on his hole, then licks it gently.

He feels Harry’s body twist, his shoulders struggle against the wrist ties.

“Your color, Harry?”

“I'm… all green, Louis.”

Louis nudges Harry’s ankles apart, and then uses the remaining lengths of rope to tie them to the bedposts at the foot of the bed. He feels Harry’s foot tremble as he ties his ankle, and to reassure him, Louis rubs Harry’s shins, stroking them softly, up and down. He kisses Harry behind his calves, smelling the fragrance of his skin, tickled by his fine hairs.

When he’s done severing the rope, Louis takes the dagger and trails it down Harry’s back and over his ass. Harry struggles, feeling the sharpness on his skin. Louis feels both in awe of and staggered by Harry’s complete submission to him like this. He wants to reward him, bathe him in compliments, make him feel good, joyful.

The dagger makes a loud _ping!_ as Louis throws it into the wall.

Louis positions himself just below Harry. He touches the inside of Harry’s thighs to let him know that he’s there, and then places light kisses on each side, all the way up, his facial hair scratching warm and rough on Harry’s skin. Harry’s fingers spread widely, and the left hand pinky lifts away from his palm. Louis can feel Harry rutting against the bed as he becomes more stimulated, and his truncated moans as he tries to control himself.

“Harry,” Louis reassures him. “It's okay. You can make noises if you want to. You're safe. It’s me.”

In response, Harry stutters out a loud groan, something between animal and human.

“You're okay,” Louis says, his voice muffled by the thick of Harry’s thighs, the curves of his ass. “Let me hear you. I love your sounds.”

“Unnghg,” Harry cries. “Feels so good, Lou. I…”

Louis continues kissing and nudging him with his face until he's loose and relaxed. Then he starts a series of licks with just the tip of his tongue, on the inside of Harry’s thighs, on his balls, and just around his entrance. Pushing his cheeks apart, Louis sucks in a thimbleful of loose skin and tongues it back and forth, drawing out sharp gasps from Harry. He feels the surge of power that comes with controlling someone like this, bringing them pleasure, and it’s amplified by the knowing that it’s Harry. Then, with the broad center of his tongue, he lathers Harry’s hole extravagantly, wetting it completely, and then licks all around with swirls and jabs, barely penetrating.

Harry is struggling hard now, his leg muscles contracting, his shoulders trying to twist out of the ties, and his noises are a mixture of fast gasps and high-pitched moans. He's trying to push against Louis, but the ties restrain him. Louis’ face is wet with spit and his mouth full of the taste of Harry. Watching him, Louis feels lightheaded, having to pull away just to get a breath.

Louis reaches over to his nightstand, taking out a tube of lube and a few packets of condoms. He douses his fingers in lube, slides his hand between Harry’s ass cheeks.

“Harry,” he says, “still green?”

“So, so green,” Harry answers. He relaxes his cheeks and squeezes his hole against Louis’ finger. “So ready for you, Lou.”

Louis slides his finger in, working to loosen the muscles around the hole, the tightness making him hard enough to hurt. He pushes his cock against Harry’s thigh and ruts in rhythm to his finger, and feels Harry sink his hips back against the finger, urging him on. There is a languidness to their coming together this time, something different than before. This time it feels more vulnerable, more raw. It feels like there is less between them, everything is more — _real._ Louis hears the desperation in Harry’s voice, the openness in his cries and he wants to make this last — wants it to never end.

Louis’ precome mixes sloppily with the lube on Harry’s leg, and his cock starts sliding up his thigh. He knows Harry feels it because he's pushing back. Louis inserts another finger and hears Harry groan lightly. Harry is struggling prettily against the ropes, pushing his ass into the air. Louis adds a third finger, stretching him wide and curving the fingers all around. With one deep stroke, Louis touches the base of his prostate, causing Harry to writhe.

“Oh, God,” Harry moans. “Please, Louis — please — now.”

“No, Harry,” Louis strokes him again. “Not yet. Be good.”

“I — oh, I'll be — good, I'll — nngh…”

Louis strokes him some more, watching him twist and writhe, his legs struggle against the ropes, his hands open and close against his tied wrists. Harry’s hands fly apart like birds struggling to be free, straining against the ropes. Louis grows harder watching him, and ruts faster, more forcefully. He pants and moans into Harry’s skin, little staccato cries of need. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anyone more than this, than right now.

Harry is pushing against Louis’ fingers in a steady rhythm, grinding for more friction. Every time Louis touches his prostate, Harry hums rhythmically, almost as if he's singing. Louis is losing his mind over the hums.

“Darling, you're gorgeous,” Louis groans.

“Mmmmhmm,” Harry hums again. After another press to his prostate, Harry whines, “Louis! It's too much. Please, _please._ Now — please.”

Louis stretches his fingers more, curving them around, knowing Harry is on the brink. Still, he doesn't let him release. He flicks Harry’s prostate and strokes it back and forth, listening to Harry’s uncontrolled vocal spasms, listening to him beg.

“Pl.. please, please, Louis. Nnngh, I’m going to… I need to… God…”

“Now? You want it now, Harry? Tell me,” Louis demands, surprised at the control in his voice, in contrast to how he’s barely holding himself together.

“Yes!” Harry begs. “Now. I — I’ve been good. Haven't… haven't I, Louis? I want you. Inside. Want to feel you…”

“Oh baby,” Louis groans, “you are. So … oh, God… so very, very good. You deserve it.”

Louis doesn't need any more encouragement. He quickly takes his fingers out and tears open a condom packet, rolls it on and pours lube all over himself, feeling the liquid like fire against his skin. His hands spread Harry’s cheeks, and with one hard push, he enters.

Louis feels Harry’s warmth and tightness as if it was always meant to be. Being inside of Harry steals his breath, makes him feel like he is being torn apart, ravaged from the inside out. He pulls out and goes back in, nudging and coaxing and pushing an inch at a time. He works to remain in control, to not lose himself too soon. He wants Harry to feel good, to feel safe, protected.

Soon, Harry responds, squeezing down and making a high-pitched pant that drives Louis forward. The thrusts soon feel looser, more slippery, and hit Harry’s spot each time.

“You feel so good,” Louis moans. “Damn. I’m inside of you, Harry. We’re — ”

He tugs on the back of Harry’s hair, and the pain and the friction gather their momentum until Harry is humming and moaning with every thrust. Both men are panting and groaning in sync. They pay attention to each other, listening and feeling so their bodies react as one.

It doesn’t take long for Louis to come inside the condom, the heat and desire washing over him as he succumbs to the feeling of Harry all around him, under him, under his skin…

Harry ruts against the mattress until his cock can't take the friction anymore, and he shoots straight onto the bed, his cock pulsating with need. With a pent-up satisfaction, he cries loudly into the room, and Louis holds onto him, hugging him from behind and grinding down to help him release. He kisses Harry between the shoulder blades, murmuring sweet nothings to him.

“There, love,” Louis exhales. “You're doing so well, babe. You’re beautiful.” He wraps his arms around Harry, hugging his back, kissing his sweaty skin. “So beautiful. I love everything about this.”

“Do you?” Harry asks, spent but small. “I wanted to make it good for you.”

“It’s better than good. It’s amazing. You’re amazing.” Louis kisses him again, over and over, his hands roaming Harry’s sides and his torso, appreciating the beautiful expanse of him, the dip in his spine where his ass starts, the puffs of flesh in his love handles, the ropy ridges of muscles in his upper back. Harry’s smell and essence are penetrating and bewitching him, and Louis never wants to let go.

Louis feels himself softening inside Harry, and then Harry gives him a slow, tender, gentle squeeze, to remind him that they’re still together, that even though they’ve both come, it’s not the end. Louis kisses his back gently, for a full minute. It is the closest he’s ever felt to gratitude.

He feels Harry’s chest expand and rise up slowly, languidly, happily. Louis can't help but smile. He knows that Harry is smiling, too. It’s a peaceful moment, their antagonism completely banished, only love and sweetness remaining.

Louis pulls out and disposes of the condom, then starts untying Harry’s wrists and ankles, bringing them back together. A quick twist loosens the ropes so that they easily slide open.

“How did you do that?” Harry turns and asks, curious, flexing his reddened wrists.

“Hmm?” Louis brings Harry’s wrists to his lips and mouths them, massaging the redness.

“How did you undo the rope so quickly?”

Louis pulls the rope apart to show him.

“It's a true love’s knot,” he explains, holding the knots apart. “When one loosens, the other follows. The knots follow each other and allow for space.”

Harry’s fingers trace the knots delicately, and then loops the knots around Louis’s hands. He cinches them tight, pulling Louis toward himself.

“Can the person who’s tied up undo it?”

“Yes,” Louis replies. “You could have, Harry. You could have loosened it any time by pulling them apart. Darling, the knot is for both of us. For our pleasure. It was never to keep you down.”

Louis demonstrates by slowly pulling his hands apart without using any force. The ropes untangle quickly, the knots falling apart. Harry is stunned both by the ease with which the knot unravels, and by Louis’ choice of the knot, which allowed him to leave at anytime.

“Show me how,” Harry asks.

Louis demonstrates, going over his instructions twice until Harry ties it with ease. He cinches the ropes tight around Louis’ wrists, and then pulls him closer.

“A true love’s knot,” Harry repeats, with gentle awe.

“Yes, my love,” Louis leans in to kiss him. “One knot always follows the other. A knot without an end.”

Harry looks at Louis for a long moment, and then slowly, reverently removes the ropes from his wrists. He unwinds the ropes as if taking off a talisman or a token. Louis takes the ropes from him and throws them aside.

Louis slides down Harry’s body, rubs and kisses Harry’s ankles, massaging the reddened skin. Then Louis straightens out, tugs Harry’s wrists up to his lips, and kissing them gently, massages them with his thumbs. He gathers Harry to himself, stroking his face, kissing him on the cheeks, the lips, always caressing his reddened wrists and hands.

“You are so beautiful to me,” Louis says. “Maybe the most beautiful person I've ever met.”

“You're happy, Lou?”

“Ecstatic,” Louis answers. “I wanted this for so long, but I couldn't have imagined it like this.”

“I'm happy, too,” Harry says, adding, “at least for today.”

Louis brings his arm around Harry’s shoulders, so Harry is lying inside, his head on Louis’ shoulder, his arm draped across Louis’ belly and wrapped around his waist.

“Fuck,” Louis says, wistfully. “What are we going to do, Harry?” A flicker of despair licks at him, and despite what just happened, Louis is tired and spent. “About us. And the Cupid. What's going to happen?”

He tightens his arm around Harry to draw him in closer. Louis can't get Harry close enough. He wants Harry plastered next to him forever, wants him in bed with him, just like they are now, in a world without boundaries.

Harry presses a kiss into the base of Louis’ neck, a small, sad smile on his face.

“We’ll decide tomorrow.”

“Good,” Louis answers. “I can't think right now. I think I'd sign over Tomlinson Enterprises to you if you asked.” He turns to kiss Harry’s flushed cheek. “I'm not letting you go, for the record. Whatever comes tomorrow, you're coming back to me.”

“For the record,” Harry says quietly, “I like you too, Louis Tomlinson, very much.”

Harry stretches up and kisses Louis on the corner of the lips, and then touches his fingers to Louis’ mouth. Louis kisses them back with some effort, eyes heavy.

“Love,” Louis mutters. “You're… I'm… “

He’s drifting into a semi-conscious, fugue state. His eyes flutter as he struggles to keep them open.

“Come on,” he mutters half-intelligibly. “Snug… Harry… smuh… na… snuggle.”

“Good night, Lou,” Harry says. He closes his eyes for the last few minutes, knowing that the drone is waiting, the motorcycle’s waiting, nothing can be at stasis, everything is always moving forward or backward, and love is a frail, untenable thing.

Then, after Louis has begun to exhale his soft snores, Harry gets up, puts on his suit, takes Batman’s dagger out of the wall, and tucks it into his belt. Slowly he takes off his collar and lays it on the bedside table, the pussycat cut-out barely visible against the dark wood. Louis is soundly asleep, oblivious to the noises around him.

With a quiet sigh, Harry pulls his mask over his face, bends down and kisses Louis’ chin. He passes his hand over Louis’ lips, feeling his exhalations. Then with barely a whisper, he’s gone.

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

A seam cracks inside Louis’ head as the pounding comes again, blooming into a stabbing ache. The loud rapping is coming from his door.

“Hey! Lou! Open up!”

Reluctantly, Louis opens his eyes. For a moment, he feels disoriented, not knowing where he is or even what time of the day it is. Bright light is streaming through the curtains. It is way past dawn.

As the white ceiling swims into focus, Louis starts to feel the rumpled fabric and pillows around him, realizing that he's in his bed, at home. He feels sore all over, the left side of his neck stings intensely, and there’s a musky, floral scent in the air that … oh, he remembers the smell now. He quickly checks across the bed. Except for the bunched-up white sheets, the space glares back, disappointingly empty.

“You alright in there?” More pounding on the door. “Lou! It's almost noon! Should I break the door down?”

At last, Louis recognizes Liam’s voice.

Wearily, he shouts, “I'm okay, Li, for God’s sakes.” Louis slowly swings upright. “Can you stop with the pounding!”

He gathers sheets around his waist and stands on his uncertain feet, drunkenly feeling the cool floor beneath his soles.

His head feels odd, like a hangover without the nausea. Louis is also surprised to feel a soreness on his deflated cock, which he can't remember touching for days.

He slowly shakes his head a few times, feeling the cotton-like dryness of his mouth, and again experiences the lacerating sting, high on the left side of his neck, radiating down to his left shoulder. He gingerly touches the skin to find four parallel, long, thin tender scabs, very similar to claw marks. Louis feels like he just left a fight in which he came out rather badly.

He shuffles over to the door and twists the knob. Liam is standing on the other side with a look of concern, holding a rolling pin in one hand.

Louis nods his chin at the kitchen utensil. “Planning an emergency bake-off in my room?”

“Arrgh,” Liam sighs exasperatedly, pushing past him into the room. “I thought for a minute I might have to defend your honor.” He looks at Louis’ amused, sleep-dotted eyes and grits in frustration. “What am I going to do with you, Louis? Ever since you met the Cat, you don't write, you don't call. You don't answer your door. Can't even tell if you're alive or dead half the time!”

Louis stares at the door, half-catatonic, still trying to wake up. He scratches his chest and is surprised by a crackly substance on his hand — it feels like dried lube, which seems unfathomable to him. Louis feels like he’s just slept for ninety-nine years. Nothing seems right.

Liam comes fully into the room and immediately stops short when he sees the hooks and ropes dangling from the bedroom wall, the stab of drywall and chipped paint where the dagger had been pulled out.

“ _Holy kinky Armageddon, Batman!_ What the hell happened here?”

Louis glances up at the bedroom wall and is equally shocked to see the grappling hook and ropes hanging there. Inspecting more closely, he sees more ropes on the ground, a remnant of rope hanging from the post at the foot of the bed, and a trail of chipped plaster on the ground, near the head of the bed. The ends of the ropes have clearly been cut cleanly, as if by a knife. Despite the break in the wall, Batman’s dagger is nowhere to be seen. The Batsuit is lying on the floor near the bathroom door, turned almost inside out, obviously stripped off quickly and without care.

The tableau paints an obvious — and obviously damning — picture. Despite his confusion and doubt, Louis must concede that some sexual activity, involving his dick, and probably another person, took place last night.

Liam walks closer to the wall, leans over the bed, and examines it.

“This is your grappling hook, all right. You remember firing it?”

Louis shakes his head. Surely he would have remembered something like that? But he can't even remember how he got to the Manor.

In fact, the last memory he has is of his hurried scramble along the ballroom walls at the masquerade ball, searching for the right door — number 12, wasn't it? He has no idea why this number pops into his head.

He tries to trace back his movements before that — getting his vampire costume on, then his facial makeup, Zayn’s dressing up as a zombie, going to the ball, champagne cocktails, Marina Drost’s flamboyant tiara, dance music — and then nothing, a big, black space where, apparently, a lot happened between _then_ and _now._

Liam walks over to his bedside table and picks up a thin, black, leather strand with a pussycat cutout.

“What's this?” He weighs its significance in his hand, unable to comprehend what the object is or why it’s in Louis’ room.

“What is it?” Louis cranes his neck curiously.

Liam turns the object over, examining the supple leather, the delicate silver buckle. “Collar of some kind? Too big for a cat, though, and we don't have a pet cat — “ Liam turns the thought over in his head. “Unless — ”

As the pieces come together, Liam catches himself and flushes bright red. He shakes his head, as if the inappropriate instinct to laugh threatens to overtake him at that moment. He hands the collar to Louis hurriedly.

Without making eye contact, Liam stammers, “So, um, like, I'll be downstairs. Okay? Zayn has some news I think you’ll be interested in. And there’s food.” He starts backing away from the bed, trying to make his getaway.

“Liam,” Louis loudly interrogates, “wait. What’s going on?”

“You don't — you don't remember?” Liam asks. “Anything?”

“I remember going with Zayn to the masquerade ball,” Louis says. “That's it. Then I heard you pounding on the door like you’re trying to rebuild Rome.”

“Don’t you remember the chase?” Liam rubs his chin, a hand on his waist.

“What chase?”

“With the Cat?”

“I told you,” Louis says in exasperation, waving his hand near his hair. “There's nothing.”

“Your — um — _rigid condition?_ ”

“Oh, for the love of God, Liam, stop beating around the bush. What are you talking about?” Louis’ genuinely bewildered face makes Liam smirk, and finally burst out howling with laughter. “Tell me!”

“You had a taste of the Cupid’s poison last night, Lou. That's what Zayn says, anyway.” Liam watches Louis’ face sink with understanding, and his brows furrow with dread. “You were — how shall I say — a loaded gun with the safety off, if you know what I mean.”

Louis’ head drops back as he rubs a hand over his closed eyes. “Oh, God. Please tell me no one saw that.” Liam continues laughing.

“So, _in fact_ ,” Liam clears his throat dramatically, “there were eyewitnesses. Lots of them. Don't worry, they saw Batman, not you. And not to blow smoke up your ass, but Batman did something heroic.”

“I did?”

“Oh yeah,” Liam answers. “You leaped from the roof of the Batmobile, chased down the Cat on his motorcycle, and got Marina Drost’s tiara back.” Louis’ face is a mixture of relief, pride, and mortification. “Boner or not, Batman, you got the job done.”

“What!” Louis quietly shudders. “Shit. That sounds like a fucking catastrophe. Why didn't someone stop me?”

“As if anyone could?” Liam raises an eyebrow. “As if no one tried.”

“Damn it,” Louis groans. He knows that Zayn probably tried to wring his neck, and probably will finish the job today.

“When it comes to criminals, Batman,” Liam deadpans, “you come down _hard._ ”

Louis groans. “Please. Don't.”

“Batman knows how to hand out those _stiff_ sentences.”

“Liam, can you _not_ with the puns!” Louis shouts, over Liam’s delighted cackles. After Liam has finished laughing at him, Louis asks, “And then what?”

Liam says in a sheepish voice, “I have to admit, I don't remember after that. I saw something funny on the video monitors overlooking the gardens, and went upstairs to check it out, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in bed.”

“What?” Louis chews the information over in his mind, simultaneously intrigued and worried. “You don't remember, either? That's strange, isn't it?”

Liam’s eyebrows frown, his smile disappearing. “Is it? Yeah, I really don't remember. Zayn’s checking things out downstairs, and he'll fill you in. Come on down when you're ready.” Liam turns to leave the room, and then stops in his tracks and turns around. “And um — Louis. Whatever happened here?” He gestures broadly toward the bed with his hand, trying to avert his eyes. “Is between you and him. My lips are sealed, okay? I don't know what kind of” — he waves his hand — “ _thing_ this is, or what you're doing, but I trust you know what you're doing. This is your private matter, unless you want to share it.”

“Wha —? How?” Louis stutters, shaking his head in confusion. “How can I share when I don't even know what happened? I was under the spell of the poison, Liam. I don't remember a thing.”

“Well, you're alive,” Liam calmly answers. “That's something, isn't it? In your amnesiac state, he could have easily killed you. And he didn't, you know?” Liam twists the knob to open the bedroom door. “He didn't kill you, and you didn't kill him. And, it seems, he left you a little gift, something to remember him by.” He points to the collar on the nightstand. Louis stares at it with a mixture of confusion and tenderness, an involuntary flicker of feeling. “That means something, doesn't it? Oh, by the way,” his voice lightens, “I made you some blueberry biscuits, and I'll get the coffee. I think you need some espresso today. Just come down when you're ready?”

Liam quietly closes the door after himself. Louis wraps the sheets around himself and drags himself back to sit on the edge of the bed. He tries to think over what Liam said, trying hard to recall any small details from last night.

Liam was implying that the Cat had been here, and left the collar as a memento of their being together. But was it as Batman and the Cat? Or as Louis and Harry?

The thought that Harry might have revealed himself, and Louis has already forgotten it, is too painful for Louis to contemplate. How can he not remember that? What did he say? What did they do? It's all a terrible, mangled void.

Louis decides to take a shower to clear his head. He drags the sheets toward the bathroom. As he comes near the Batsuit, he experiences a foreboding feeling that he's never had before, as if something terrible is about to happen, or has happened, and he’s walking into its cloud, inhaling its vapors again, triggering the same anxiety, tenderness, pain. He wants to live here, to explore it further, but the feeling lingers in stasis without any more clarity. He stands at the doorway, living in it, unable to move forward or back, staring at the Batsuit as if asking for answers.

Finally, giving up, he drops everything and heads into the shower, washes himself clean, and gets dressed. He leaves the mess on the bedroom wall clean up later. Maybe Zayn or Liam will be kind enough to call someone to fix it. Secretly, Louis hopes to look at it later, to see whether he can piece together any more clues.

In the kitchen, Zayn is leaning over the computer tablets and scouring the news. He looks up when Louis walks into the room.

“You're looking better, Lou,” he says, darting a quick look toward Liam, who is preparing an espresso at the kitchen counter. “How’re you feeling?”

Louis rubs his face with one hand, scrubbing over his eyes.

“Zayn,” he says, “don’t bullshit me. Tell the truth. How bad was it last night?”

“If _this_ is any indication,” Zayn slides a tablet over to him, “I’d say, pretty good.”

The tablet shows a livestream of a news channel, coming from the Mayor’s office. The Mayor stands at a podium with an American flag to one side, and Commissioner Gordon next to him. He's in the middle of a speech.

“... boys in blue are right there to protect you, the citizens of Gotham. In sun or in rain, in snow or in sleet, our boys are braving the elements, taking risks to make sure that you and your loved ones stay safe and secure.” The Mayor drinks from a glass on the podium, his face portentous and serious. “But there's one other person without whom our city would not enjoy the peace and prosperity that it does,” he continues. “A person who does his job quietly and courageously, who foils criminal minds no matter how devious or strong, and who is the most important ally in our fight against evil.”

The Mayor pauses for effect. Commissioner Gordon shifts his weight on his feet, expecting the announcement. “That's why today, here in the Mayor’s office, I would like to present the key to the city to… Batman. May he ever heed our call.”

Right on time, a smaller version of the Bat signal is projected onto the wall behind the Mayor, as he hoists a large brass replica of the city’s key and holds it up to the light. The audience applauds politely, and the camera zooms in on the keys. The broadcast cuts back to the newscaster, and Zayn reaches over to shut it off.

“The keys to the city, Batman,” he smiles. “Awesome.”

Louis grimaces. “Yeah, right. The Mayor has to give an illusion of control. That's all this is. It's a charade.”

“You don't think they're sincerely honoring you?” Zayn says, acerbically. “So young, yet so cynical!”

“They do what they can to keep people from getting worried,” Louis answers. “Meanwhile,” he nods knowingly at Zayn, “no Cupid, no Cat, no antidote.”

“Yup. It's a tough one to crack,” Zayn agrees. “They have us going round in circles, don't they?” He motions to Louis’ neck and touches his own lightly to illustrate. Louis looks away quickly.

Zayn picks up a coffee mug and takes a sip, while Liam sets down fresh biscuits, butter, jams, and silverware. Louis walks over to the counter and takes an espresso cup from Liam, sipping the hot, bitter liquid like medicine.

“Zayn,” Louis asks, “Liam says he doesn't remember a thing from last night, just like me. Do you think someone gave him the poison somehow?”

Zayn helps himself to a biscuit, spreading jam over it and cutting it up.

“I found Liam curled up in the library,” Zayn says, “on the couch. He was pretty out of it, but it doesn't seem like there's anything in his system.”

“But the poison isn't detectable,” Louis says. “He could have had a tiny dose.”

“True,” Liam says, “but I wasn't stripped naked either.”

Louis chokes on his espresso a bit, then coughs and wipes his mouth.

Zayn shakes his head. “It's possible something lured him up here. It's also possible Liam fell asleep reading comic books.”

Liam says, sheepishly, “I admit I do like comic books. Zayn put me in bed, Louis. I honestly don't remember.”

Louis turns to Zayn, “So, have we made any progress on this poison of Cupid’s?”

“Well, it's an aphrodisiac, as we know. Aphrodisiacs work on the limbic system,” Zayn answers, “the most primitive central nervous system. Sex is as old as breathing, you could say. Any changes to the formula could cause some drastic effects.”

“Zayn’s found out something cool about it, though,” Liam adds. “Tell him.”

“Cool?” Louis quirks his right eyebrow. He cuts a tiny piece of his biscuit and butters it.

“Well, _interesting,_ ” Zayn replies. “There used to be an old aphrodisiac from Asia, from the Thai jungles, called Leopard’s Blood. Herbal healers have known about it for ages — forty, fifty years at least.”

Louis picks diffidently at his biscuits. “Okay. I'm listening.”

“It's a plant-derived chemical, from a tropical flower, called the _Pardi sanguinem camellia_ ; it drives a certain Asian clouded leopard crazy. The leopard rubs himself or herself on the pollen, scampers off to mate, and pollinates the plant.”

“Listen,” Louis chews on his biscuit and takes a sip of the espresso, “Zayn, that sounds super cool, it really does, but I'm not a plant or a leopard, so…”

“Hold the phone, you tool,” Zayn replies, offended. “It's called Leopard’s Blood for a reason. First, there's the pink color of the pollen; that's where the potion gets its color. But also, it drives leopards so wild that the males start showing aggressive displays of dominance. When two males come together, they start fighting and clawing each other until one bleeds to death. Now, obviously that is a minus.”

“Mm,” Louis answers. “Yeah, I can see that.” His mind is churning, however, thinking back to the effects of the poison.

“Well, it’s bad for the leopard,” Liam chimes in. “But bad for the plant, too. No leopards around, no pollinator. Right, Zayn?”

“Yes, right. So in nature, the plant adapts. When the iron in the leopard’s blood comes in contact with the poison, the poison is reduced in potency.”

Louis raises his head, intrigued. “What does that mean?”

“The iron cuts down on the effect of the poison,” Zayn says. “It's a negative feedback system.”

“So…” Louis hesitates.

“When the leopards starts bleeding, the poison’s effect decreases, and they no longer want to kill each other. Leopards live, plant gets pollinated. Everyone’s happy.”

Louis’ hand unconsciously travels to his left neck and touches the tender scars there, and then creeps up his face to touch at the healed, invisibly thin scar on his cheek. Each time the Cat had scratched him, it was before a potential contact with the poison. There's a thread of the puzzle there, but he can't quite tease it out.

Tentatively, Louis asks, “How did you find this out?”

“Remember our little mouse friend?” Zayn says. “The one I showed you downstairs, in the lab? He cut himself running around the cage while I was testing, and suddenly, the poison no longer worked on him. He was back to his old self, bloodied but undefeated.”

“How much blood was there?” Louis asks urgently.

“The more blood, the less powerful the poison,” Zayn answers. “Our little mouse bled quite a bit. I was afraid he might die, honestly, but luckily, he came through. But it really doesn't have to be blood. It seems to be just the iron in the blood — the ferrous oxide in the hemoglobin, if you're curious.”

Louis notices Liam smiling broadly at him.

He asks, “What are you so happy about?”

“The antidote,” Liam says. “Are you picturing it? The iron is the key to the antidote, Lou.”

“Do you have it?” Louis turns quickly from Liam to Zayn, and back again. “The antidote. Is there one?”

“I’m working on it,” Zayn says, casually.

“Working on it! How long?”

“Lewis,” Zayn repeats, “I’m working on it. You do realize that the research and development of drugs sometimes take years.”

“Well, I haven’t got years!” Louis yells, his butter knife clattering against the plate. “Sorry.” He picks up the knife and tries to set it straight, by the plate. “We don't have years. I really need you to hurry on it, Zayn. We need another way.” His mind spins with the potential of stopping the Cupid without having to confront — or hurt — Harry. “I need you to… to...” He trails off desperately, looking away.

Zayn carefully watches Louis, takes a sip of his coffee, and then sets the cup down gently. He trades a look with Liam and then says, “Louis, can I ask you a question?”

Louis barely glances up before looking down again, his face filled with dark and despondent sadness. “Yeah, sure.”

“The Cat,” Zayn says, looking at Liam again. “Is it personal for you? Is there something we should know, Liam and I? Because we’re… well, frankly, I am in the dark. I don't know what I'm supposed to be feeling about this person.”

“Why would you say that?” Louis twirls his finger around the stem of his cup, all appetite gone.

“Louis, we just want to be clear where you stand on the Cat,” Liam helpfully adds.

“He works for the Cupid,” Louis spits out, with some feeling. “He’s on the wrong side. There's no ambiguity about him.”

“Yes, but,” Liam persists, gentle and considerate, “is he something _to you?_ Is there ambiguity for you? Are you willing to take action against him?”

“Lou, last night,” Zayn says slowly, “there were all the signs of an intruder at the Manor. The security video footage was turned off from the time Liam fell asleep, so we don't know who it was. But I have my suspicions, and, judging from what Liam saw this morning,” he glances briefly toward Liam, who offers an apologetic look to Louis, “I think you do, too.”

“What… what are you thinking?” Louis says with a deep feeling of guilt, but feigning indignance. He glares at Zayn.

“We don't know what to think,” Liam answers. “That's why we’re asking you.”

“Louis, when the time comes, can you bring the Cat in?” Zayn asks. “When push comes to shove? That's my question, I guess. Are you willing to sacrifice all of Gotham — sacrifice Batman’s reputation and his whole reason for being — for this one person? All because you know him or… actually, I don't even know what he is to you.” Louis turns away so that his face is obscured.

Zayn continues, “I know what I saw during the chase, and it doesn't make me feel great, if you want to know the truth.” He clears his throat and stares Louis down. “Lou, he needs to be arrested. You know that, right? He’s a criminal. He has deceived and stolen, and, who knows, he may have already deceived you…”

“He's nothing to me!” Louis declares. He stands suddenly, striding to the end of the table. “Nothing. He is nothing more than an enemy. I stand firmly against him.” He turns his back to them, trying to be calm. “I have no feelings for him or whatever — ridiculous — fantasy you’ve dreamed up.”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow and sips his coffee. Liam gazes at Louis sympathetically.

“Yes, _ridiculous,_ that I even have to deny it. I'm not going to compromise Batman’s integrity, Zayn. Justice will be served — you can count on it.” Louis rushes his words. Zayn looks on skeptically, and Liam has a slight, uncomfortable smile on his face. “Find the antidote. Neutralize the poison. You do your job, and I'll bring in the Cupid.”

“ _And_ the Cat,” Zayn reminds him.

Louis glowers from under his knitted brows. “ _And_ the Cat.”

They stare at each other challengingly.

“Good to hear,” Zayn finally says, in a deadened voice.

Zayn stands up, gathers his computer tablets, and leaves the kitchen to go down to the Batcave. Liam turns to watch Louis as if monitoring a time bomb.

Without another word, Louis turns and walks out of the kitchen too, leaving behind a silence loud with unanswered questions.

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

  
_I swam across_   
_I jumped across for you_

 

 

Zayn descends into the basement of the Batcave and tosses the pair of computer tablets on the desk, in front of the bank of monitors.

He’s irritated by Louis’ bad attitude, and he wants to yell at someone (preferably Louis) until things start making sense again. Louis has never acted like this before — so secretive, weird, and cagey. There's something he isn't telling, and it has everything to do with the Cat.

Zayn twists around to look at the Batmobile, which has new scratches and dents in the roof and hood, thanks to last night’s adventures. He thinks about the pursuit, the way that the Cat’s motorcycle seemed to anticipate where they were going, the way he waited for them, and the itchy desire Louis showed in going after him. The intense attraction they have for one another is so obvious, Zayn thinks, and it isn’t just the potion. It seems like they have a familiarity, a history. Everyone else in the room could see it, yet Louis tries so hard to hide it. They know each other, he’s sure of it.

It bothers Zayn endlessly that Louis won’t just come out and tell him what’s going on. He’s compromising their whole mission to capture the Cupid. Zayn knows, deep down, that Louis can’t help plunging in to save someone in trouble, but in this case, it’s so clear that the Cat is the wrong one to save. He has hurt Louis, on multiple occasions, without conscience, and Louis always leaves these encounters with cuts and bruises on his body. Even this morning, he was walking with a slight limp. Zayn is certain that the Cat will kill Louis one day, given the chance. So _why?_ Why does Louis spare him — and even, in a way, protect him?

After a moment, Zayn purses his lips, shakes his head, and turns his attention back to the monitors.

The video monitors had not been recording last night. Liam had gone upstairs to investigate, and an electrical connection must have shorted, taking out the recording function. The cameras appeared to be monitoring, just not actually recording anything. That's the reason Zayn didn't notice anything wrong when he and Louis had come home — everything had been on, nothing appeared out of place. He has to admit, though, last night he was so tired and so worried about Louis that he hadn't really paid much attention to the security system.

Consequently, they have no actual video footage of the grounds last night. Zayn Malik isn't one to speculate without reason, and he doesn’t like to jump to conclusions. Despite his meticulous attention to the details, electrical systems have malfunctioned at Tomlinson Manor before. Things break down; it happens.

Still, Zayn has a nagging suspicion that the monitors’ not recording must somehow be connected to the intruder. He has seen the Cat in action, and he knows how strong, how smart, how devious their opponent is. A clandestine infiltration has the Cat’s fingerprints all over it.

Zayn can't quite figure out why the Cat is so important to Louis, but he saw how Louis leapt on the motorcycle last night, how he clung on to the Cat, how the Cat extended his neck to be bitten and kissed, and… well, Zayn’s no idiot. It's one thing to see the poison work on Louis, but it's another to see the Cat reciprocate.

The Cat… the Cat…

He's not acting alone, Zayn thinks. The Cat isn’t the one calling the shots. He’s only following orders from the Cupid. She's the mastermind, isn't she?

He wishes he could ask Louis about it, but Louis seems so angry and conflicted. Zayn can't understand it. What is he hiding?

Giving in to his suspicions, Zayn lifts his head toward the nearest wall, and begins a broad inspection along the ceiling, for telltale reflections of concealed camera lenses. Maybe he's just being paranoid, but better safe than sorry.

This team of criminals — they're not merely petty thieves. Zayn doesn't know what they intend to do, but one target seems clear. They want Batman, and they've come to his house to get him.

 

 

•••

 

 

“Think he’s onto us?” Harry watches the screen, his voice cold and distant.

“He knows something's up,” Niall answers, pointing to the monitor. “Look.”

On the computer monitor in front of them, Harry and Niall watch Zayn’s upward, curious gaze as he slowly turns his torso and his neck to scan the entire ceiling of the Batcave. At one point, Zayn is looking directly into the camera, staring right through it. Even though he can't see them, Harry and Niall draw back and hold their breaths, watching for his reaction. They let out a small sigh of relief when he moves on.

Niall guffaws. “Nice camera placement, Harry.” He tips his chin at Harry. “It’s a perfect view.”

He zooms in on Zayn, getting a nice shot of the back of his head and his slim shoulders. Niall zooms out again, adjusting the angle to look at the various monitors in the Batcave, in front of Zayn. The screens monitoring the outside of the Manor are all visible, as are the monitors inside. They can see the dusty and dented Batmobile in the center of the room, looking worse for wear.

“Well, you did give me a drone, Niall,” Harry replies. He rests one hand on the desk beside Niall and leans down to see the screen. “It’s child’s play from there.”

They are in Niall’s workroom, at a desk near the wall. The pearly light streaks through the high, rectangular windows near the ceiling — functional windows, not beautiful. The large gym and storage area look much the same as before: the beige, rough, tarpaulin cloth lying on the ground, and various threatening-looking mechanical weapons displayed on the walls and floor. Now, eleven new bullwhips hang in their magnificent, untarnished glory high on the wall closest to the desk, all but one missing the large diamond in the hilt.

“Thanks to you, Harry,” Niall says, “we can tap into any of the monitors in the house.” He flips the video image from one camera to another, surveying the empty hallways and rooms in grayscale. “Twenty-eight, altogether.”

He shows Harry the camera to the western garden, where he had parked his motorcycle the previous night, then the front door, then the gates guarding the Manor, and the garage where several vintage luxury cars were parked, sparkling, glamorous, and meticulous.

“Place is a fucking monster,” Niall marvels. “Can you imagine living here? Must cost an arm and a leg to maintain. Oh, and Harry, thanks for downloading the security access. D’you have any problems?”

“None, surprisingly,” Harry replies. “Louis — um, I mean Tomlinson — ” Harry quickly shakes his head, his mouth twitching with the correction — “has an unexpectedly casual attitude toward security. No one guards the place at night except the monitors. Your idea to send the drone ahead was brilliant. Payne was distracted by the chase. He didn't notice it at all.”

“Good job, though. With _Louis’_ security system.”

Niall glances quickly at Harry, his blue eyes crinkling, upper lip raised in one corner. Harry catches the pointed reference to Louis’ name.

He speaks up defensively, “You know me, Niall. I always get the job done.”

Niall gives a brief nod of reassurance. “Yeah, yeah, of course, mate.”

Harry insists, “I play to win.”

“That you do, Harry,” Niall chuckles. “That you do. You're the best.”

“You mean _we’re_ the best. The dream team, right?” Harry smiles, but his eyes are dark.

Niall claps him on the back. They watch the computer screen as the camera switches to the front gate, showing the ornate, old-fashioned brass letters spelling out TOMLINSON.

“So,” Niall announces. “There ya have it. Gotham's biggest mystery solved. Louis Tomlinson _is_ the Batman.”

“Yes,” Harry answers softly, pushing away from the desk. “I suppose so. Have you told the Cupid?”

“Oh, she knows,” Niall answers confidently. “Has known for a while, since his first visit to the hot dog stand. Remember that? Harry, she knows everything. Always two steps ahead.”

Harry stares uneasily at the ground, twisting his fingers around each other. He can't help but pace in place, fidgeting.

Niall is oblivious, however, his attention still on the monitor.

“Kind of a cliché, don't you think, Harry? Playboy gazillionaire, bored out of his mind, turns superhero?” He smiles at Harry. “Makes you wonder what kind of person he is. Must be lonely and bored as hell. Bet he's a load of fun at parties, eh?” Harry looks down quickly while Niall continues. “Shame. Seems like an okay guy, and a looker, too, don't you think? Outrageously handsome lad. Let’s see, Liam Payne must be his coordinator, and Zayn Malik — this dude —” he points to Zayn on the screen — “is his weapons engineer.” Niall pauses, then continues. “A team of three. Thanks to your work last night, we’ve gotten quite a bit of information.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Check this out.”

He double clicks on a file in the corner of the computer desktop. A low resolution video image, with blurry horizontal lines, snaps on screen. It shows three figures sitting around a table, talking, with cups and plates in front of them.

“... it drives leopards so wild that the males start showing aggressive displays of dominance...” They hear the jumbled audio of the person speaking. It appears to be Zayn Malik. The fuzzy, low-res video is playing the conversation in the Manor kitchen, from just a few minutes ago.

Zayn continues, “When two males come together, they start fighting and clawing each other until one bleeds to death…”

The image shows Louis’ pensive, curious face and Liam’s gleeful smile, his eyes creased in a line. Harry winces, seeing Louis’ familiar expression — his sleepy, half-lidded eyes, his fingers wrapped around the espresso cup, his thin lips pursed in thought. Louis’ hair is mussed and soft, the strands flying in different directions as his hand comes up to push them out of his face.

“Interesting,” Harry states, his face expressionless.

“Isn't it!” Niall laughs.

“They're talking about the poison.” Harry turns toward Niall.

“Oh, more than that,” Niall rejoins. He turns down the volume. “Zayn’s discovered the source of the poison. He knows about the flower, the pollen, and the role that the clouded leopards play. He’s a clever one, that Zayn Malik — does his research, and _fast_. So quick. A worthy adversary, for sure.” Niall grins like a maniac. “A true professional.”

“And?”

“And, he knows about the iron.” Niall turns the volume back up, and they hear the conversation about how the iron oxide in blood tempers and neutralizes the poison.

“Zayn’s working on the antidote,” Harry concludes. He glances at Niall to make sure they agree.

“Working on it?” Niall says. “Plenty close, I’d say, with all the resources of Tomlinson Enterprises behind him.”

Harry digests the information, somewhat taken aback. “Do you think they're going to find it soon?”

Niall ponders before he answers. “They're on the right track, for sure. I listened to the tape twice, and I think there's one mistake they're overlooking. Zayn thinks it's the iron in the blood that’s important to the antidote, but as we know, that's not exactly right.”

“It's the blood itself,” Harry says. Both he and Niall are remembering the Cupid’s first presentation of the poison, and her descriptions of how blood lessened its power.

“Exactly.” Niall agrees. “The iron’s important, for sure, but not any scrap-yard iron. Remember that iron in the blood is in a cage, trapped by the bonds of hemoglobin. Iron alone won't do it. They'll never find the antidote by focusing on inorganic iron. There has to be a catalyst, and the catalyst has to be blood.”

“Blood starts the chain reaction...” Harry starts.

“... to cut the power of the poison,” Niall concludes. “There's no other way. But you know,” he spins toward Harry, hands clasped in front of his chest, “it doesn't take an Einstein to figure it out.” He chuckles again. “I'm sure they’ll have it in a week or two.”

Harry’s voice cracks when he asks, “Did you tell the Cupid?”

“Not yet,” Niall replies, “but I expected this, frankly. Sooner or later, someone was going to figure it out, and it looks like Zayn’s our man. Smart one, that Zayn Malik.” Niall remarks with admiration. “It just means we have to move our plans along a little faster.” He claps his hands together. “What do you say, Harry? You ready?”

Harry seems to summon the powers of his training, his self-control, and his mask of indifference. His voice is calm, even, and cool when he replies, “Yes, of course. Always.”

However, a slight flutter rises from his chest, belying his exterior control, and a feeling of nausea rises from his stomach. He turns his head aside, but not before Niall catches a glimpse of his conflicted eyes. In his peripheral vision, Niall watches Harry bite down on his lips to stop them from twitching, and flatten his palm against his thigh so his hand does not shake.

“What's our time table?” Harry asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Well, I’d say as soon as possible,” Niall answers brightly, glancing at him. “Wouldn't you? I have the batch of poison we need for the next step. There’s just enough, I think. I'm working on the final batch. Should be ready in a week or so.”

Harry controls his body just enough to walk over to a chair a few feet away. When he sinks into it, his long legs nearly give out under him. He’s so lightheaded that he has to put his head between his legs to keep from falling down. He rests with his hands covering his face, breathing slowly and deeply, while Niall watches with curiosity.

“Harold,” Niall calls, lightly. “Hey, Harry. Harry!” Niall stands and walks over to Harry, afraid to touch him. “You alright?”

When Harry doesn't answer, Niall bends down to check him out. Harry’s skin is ashen, his forehead coated with a thin sheen of perspiration, and his nails are pale and bluish.

“Is it — I mean, um — can I get you something?” Niall asks with concern. “Some water, maybe?”

Harry shakes his head and keeps it lowered, his breaths ragged, raspy. His face is scrunched together and his fingers curled.

“Harry.”

Niall puts his hand lightly on Harry’s back, feeling his slow, labored respirations.

“Harry, was it the talk about blood? Was it too much? Did it get to ya?”

Harry’s breathing slows perceptibly as he shakes his head, _No_. Harry runs his hands through his hair, but is otherwise silent, keeping his head low and eyes closed. Niall feels faint tremors in his chest as Harry shakes silently, and he can't tell whether Harry’s cold or crying.

“Harry,” Niall asks delicately. “D’you wanna talk about it?”

Harry starts to shake his head again, and then, giving into feelings that he can’t control, becomes still. Niall pats him gently on the back, and waits.

After a long moment, with no word forthcoming, Niall asks, “Are you having second thoughts?”

Harry lifts his head then, his hair obscuring his tortured green eyes. Niall sees the unsteadiness in the corners of his mouth and his dampened cheeks. Harry’s lips tremble but he says nothing for a while. Finally, as if tired of keeping a secret, he begins.

“I don't know,” Harry says, his voice hoarse and small. “Niall, I don't know if I can — I mean, I don’t... I can’t — I don’t think I can — do it to him.” He looks away, ashamed, dejected, betraying everything he has been trained to do.

“ _Wha?_ ”

Niall slumps down, genuinely bewildered. He has never seen Harry like this, not even under the greatest duress.

Harry usually psychs himself through pain. The Cupid calls him her best weapon. Harry can drag five hundred pounds and deadlift two hundred. Physical pain isn’t an issue.

Niall knows that there were things that happened to Harry before they met. _Bad_ things. He doesn't ask, and Harry doesn't tell, but Niall has seen the scars on his hand, and he knows they didn’t come from archery.

But Harry has been _trained,_ for God’s sakes. He's trained to lock his fears and other feelings away, to focus on the moment. He is pure speed and strength, all concentration and deadly aim.

Therefore, seeing Harry so vulnerable, and with such self-doubt, makes Niall very uncomfortable. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and his hands feel like putty. Slowly, an uncomfortable but certain realization dawns on him.

He runs through a list of all the people whom Harry can be talking about, and there's only one him he can think of.

Niall has steadily noticed Harry’s growing reluctance, but has refrained from commenting on it. He sees how Harry has been changing. There's only one person who has left him so shaken, unsure. Only one whom he seems to hunt down with more than a professional interest; only one who has left a mark.

Only one _him_ whom Harry has been struggling against, inside and out.

Harry had returned from the Manor very late last night, Niall knows — way later than necessary. Niall only got a quick glimpse at Harry, but it was enough.

He had been shaken and torn when he returned, his lips reddened and raw, his cheeks dotted with two flaming circles of color, his eyes dilated and wide. Moreover, the seams of his Cat costume had been ripped at the thighs, and both of his wrists showed rough, red marks, like rope burn. Batman’s dagger had been strapped to his belt, like a trophy — or a memento. Niall doesn’t want to think about it too hard, to be honest.

“Harry…” Niall asks now, his voice careful, “is it — Louis Tomlinson?”

Harry is motionless. Long strands of hair hide his face; his hand cups his chin. Reluctantly, Harry looks down and nods. His mouth is twisted by guilt and shame. His eyes are narrowed with sadness, and he shakes his head, gazing away.

“What happened?” Niall asks with some discomfort. “I mean, between you two. What happened, exactly?”

Niall counts the seconds ticking by in that pregnant pause. He watches Harry with trepidation.

“ _We_ happened,” Harry finally answers. His body trembles with the effort of confession. In a way, he seems relieved to unburden his secret. He turns to Niall, lips parted and eyes seeking forgiveness. “I loved him first. I loved him before I had to hate him.”

Niall pulls back, not really surprised and yet not fully prepared.

“Jesus. _Harry._ ”

Harry covers his eyes with his hands, shielding himself. He forces himself to go on. “We were kids — best friends, and we fell in love. A long time ago.” Harry shakes his head, remembering. “It's different now, I know. I'm not a fool. _We're_ different. We can't possibly feel anything for each other… we can't…”

“Jesus!” Niall says for a second time. “Are you serious?”

Harry inhales slowly before speaking. “He was under the spell of the poison last night.” He turns toward Niall, trying not to let the breaths come out too jaggedly. He shakes his head again, wringing his hands in frustration. “And we... maybe we… it wasn't real, you know? I was _controlling_ it.”

“You did — _what_? Harry, you can't possibly think… oh, _dude._ ”

“I know. I believed… love isn't… It was just a game. A cruel game, for laughs. It was never real. But he made me — _feel._ ” Harry breaks off, and stops himself.

“Harry, you're kidding me. You can't be f —” Niall stands up, rubs his temples, and shakes his head incredulously. “You’re playing with fire. You’ve put everything at risk. How do you think — ”

“We were in our costumes. It was pretend.” Harry’s voice has diminished to a whisper, and his face has become still, with all emotion drained. “It was for kicks, wasn't supposed to mean anything. But I still — _felt_ things, Niall. So deeply that it hurt like a cut — ” Harry stops, curtailing the thought. “Anyway, he doesn't know. He doesn't even remember.”

“Are you sure about that?” Niall asks. “He knows nothing at all?”

Harry meets Niall’s gaze and then looks away. His curls hang damply in his eyes, but he doesn't push them away. His hand grazes his forehead, and then his forearm slides in and shields his eyes.

“Harry,” Niall reaches over to shake Harry’s arm. “Be honest. What do you feel? Do you — _love_ him? Is that it?”

“No,” Harry retorts. “I can't, Niall. No — I don't. I don't know.” He holds his breath, and his arm hides his eyes. “Yes, maybe. I don't know.”

Love, that fragile and ephemeral thing, beckons like home.

“No? Yes?” Niall nearly smiles, and he is nearly moved to pity, watching his friend.

“I — I can't,” Harry chokes out. A tear drifts from the side of his eye, and he brushes it away angrily, roughly, trying to erase it. He breathes in a series of deep, uneven hiccups, and then slowly exhales. He runs his forearm over his nose and wipes it clean.

“You can't?” Niall presses. “Or you don't? They're not the same thing, Harry.”

Harry looks up. His eyes glimmer, but there's a new look of steely resolve in his mouth.

“You’re right. I don't.” He wipes his eyes and sets his lips firmly. His voice is determined. “No, I don't. I don’t love Louis, or anyone. End of discussion. Let's get going, Ni. I'm ready.”

Niall watches him for a moment. All traces of emotion and sentiment have been tucked away, strapped back down, locked. He's back to the old Harry Niall knows and trusts.

“So, what’re you saying? You're committed to the mission? One hundred percent?” Niall raises one eyebrow, his head cocked at an angle. He watches Harry’s jaw harden, outlined as sharp as stone.

“I play to win,” Harry replies, with a hint of anger in his sad, battle-worn voice. “One hundred and ten percent.”

“And Tomlinson?”

Harry shakes his head, brutally batting the thought away. He replies, low and steady, “I'm all in, Niall. Let’s go.”

Niall walks over to turn off the computer and close the lid of the laptop. The door to the gym creaks and clicks, and the high windows shudder. He starts to pack up his things.

Harry clears his throat heavily. “Niall, can I ask — ”

“Sure, Harry. Just say the word.” Niall turns to Harry, whose face is still stained, not quite dry.

“Could you please not say anything to the Cupid? Please — don't tell her.” He wipes his forearm across his face, erasing all evidence. His eyes are cast downward as he continues, “I owe the Cupid everything. She's given me all I have.”

Niall nods imperceptibly, and is about to walk over to reassure Harry, when they hear a voice at the door.

“Tell me what?”

The Cupid stands at the door, her slight frame costumed in black and neat as always, hair in a sleek ponytail. Her eyes are shielded in the crimson visor.

She walks toward the men, face tilted to one side, her forehead placid. Her confidence is evident with every step.

Her physical dominance is palpable. Niall startles, as he always does, from the aura of reassurance and intimidation that always surrounds her.

“Something to share, Harry?”

Harry calms his breathing and clears his throat. He stands up, flexing his hands.

“Batman will have the antidote soon, Cupid,” he answers, his voice becoming steadier toward the end. “I was just discussing it with Niall.”

“We didn't want to upset you,” Niall adds quickly, “but thanks to Harry, we got some news today. Zayn Malik, Batman’s weapons expert, is close to getting an antidote. We need to move, Cupid. They're catching up.”

The Cupid cocks her head and listens carefully for a full minute. The empty space seems pregnant with their heartbeats, pounding into the silence. Harry focuses on his breathing, dropping his blood pressure and letting the muscles in his legs and hands relax. He can sense Niall’s tenseness and the Cupid’s calm calculation. Like a hawk, she senses every molecule in the room, the slightest movement, the softest noise. The Cupid is focusing her attention on him acutely.

Finally, she speaks. “You're right, Niall. We need to move, and we will. Nothing surprises those who are prepared. One should always anticipate the unexpected, in life as in love. Isn't that right, Harry?”

Harry pinches his lips tightly and frowns. He lowers his head as he answers, “Yes, Cupid.”

“Good,” she smiles coldly, turning to him. “It’s time.”

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

Trenton Drost has always said that good employees stay until 7PM every day. So he makes it a habit to text random people at 7:05 every day, to see who has stayed and who’s gone home. Most people stay, he finds — it's funny how everyone toes the line after a few well-timed texts from the boss. The security downstairs might be changing shifts at that time. Nevertheless, Drost sometimes buzzes down at precisely 7:09 to ask who’s walking out the door.

Checking on his employee is a pain in the ass, but hey, no pain, no gain, right? Maybe it was something his father taught him — or maybe he read it in a book somewhere. Who knows. It might even have come from that Great Mind of his. He’s invented so many great things, it's hard to keep track.

He’s tired of dispensing wisdom to people around him, but God knows, people are so stupid and gullible. They buy anything and everything. He has a huge, huge responsibility on his shoulders to make sure he has a great team working for him, and if they don't work out, hey, fuck ‘em — they’re gone. What they need to learn is who the Big Man is around here.

Drost is at his new office; in fact, he just finished moving in last week. It's in one of the other buildings he owns in Gotham. Though it isn't as nice as the LAIRE; times are hard, and he has to make do. Anyway, top floor, corner office. Everyone knows who runs this place.

A buzz on his phone makes Drost jump. Ever since The LAIRE, he hasn't exactly loved loud noises. The memory of the Cat whipping him and stuffing yarn in his mouth, then trussing him up and tossing him in an alley… yeah, not great. Trenton Drost was born to _do_ stuff like that to people, not have it _done to him._ Thank God the whole city had been distracted by the building’s collapse and felt sympathetic to him. Photos of the fire department rescuing him in the alley never got to any of Gotham's newspapers. Drost had to pay off some paparazzi, but it was money well spent. Photos of him in that condition… are you kidding me? Not on your life.

Drost can't understand what the hell is going on with Gordon’s goddamn police department. Why hasn't that despicable creature been found and brought to justice? In addition to what he did to Drost’s hotel, the _Catman_ — or whatever he’s called — has assaulted his wife Marina not once, but twice.

Maybe he hasn't actually, physically damaged her, but he took her jewelry, which may even be worse! At least human bodies recover!

Anyway, she’s alright. She worries too much. She's a ball of anxiety, which doesn't help. Her nagging irritates him. Women, you know? Let’s face it, the girl looks good wearing expensive jewelry, but her pretty little mind has no way of keeping track of expensive things.

Wives, right? You can't live with them, you can't live without them. Drost should know. He’s on his third one.

Thankfully, Batman bothered to show up the second time to retrieve that Cartier tiara. The thing about vigilante superheroes is, they’re not on your payroll. So summoning them gets tricky sometimes. You don't know if they're off defusing some nuclear bomb or whatever, and your flagship hotel isn't even on their radar. But by not being on your payroll, it also means — they're doing it for free. Yes, the mayor gave Batman the key to the city. Drost has to smile at that. Having the city compensate Batman is perfectly fine with him.

Drost had heard some odd stories about that Batman and that Cat guy, how there seemed to be some funny manky-panky between them while they were struggling. Eyewitness accounts differed, and all he saw were blind gossip columns, but holy shit, how many people dress up as cats and bats, running around Gotham at night? He doesn't put anything past them.

Haha. Drost has a sudden epiphany. Batman and Catman; they rhyme. He snorts out a gruff laugh. You know what? In his book, people who dress up in costumes and go around fighting each other are all goddamn weirdos. You go to work, you wear a suit, like a normal, hard-working American. He can't trust people in weird costumes further than he can throw them.

Well, actually, he doesn't really care what happens to them, as long as the better one is on his side. Right?

His phone sounds again. He picks it up impatiently.

“Yeah, what?”

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Drost. There is a gentleman in the lobby who wants to meet with you.” A woman's voice comes through, sounding familiar but not exactly recognizable.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Penny, Mr. Drost.” Penny is his personal assistant. He would recognize her voice anywhere, but she doesn't sound like herself. “He's in the lobby now. Steve grabbed me as I was just on my way out — ”

Steve must be the night guard, or one of them. He can't remember all their names. They all look the same anyway.

“Penny, what’s wrong with you? Why do you sound like that?”

“I have a cold, sir. I’m on my way to the doctor’s.” Penny sounds apologetic. “I believe I informed you this morning, Mr. Drost.”

Drost looks at his watch. “Penny, it’s only 7:05.”

“I — I have a fever, Mr. Drost. I'm not feeling very good.”

“Oh.” Why do people get sick? It's annoying. Penny should take better care of herself, on her own dime. “You could have told me you were on your way out. Who is this guy, Penny? What’s his deal?”

“He says he’s with a publishing company, doing a biography on you. He wasn't on your schedule, Mr. Drost.”

“What's his name?” Drost snarls with impatience.

There is a pause, and then Penny’s voice comes back, “Richard McGee. He has press credentials. They look legitimate.”

Drost doesn't know a Richard McGee. He’s got so many business partners, including people who are using his name just to attach it to their buildings, it’s hard for him to remember everyone. Like, all over the world. He’s an important man.

“Have Steve walk him up,” Drost says. “Can he do that? Does he look safe to you?”

“Steve can't do that, Mr. Drost,” Penny answers. “The front desk won't be guarded then. The other guards have all gone home.”

What a pain! Drost stands up, walks around the desk and deliberates.

If there's a biography, he wants in at the beginning, so he can have a chance to control the narrative. Nothing’s worse than an unflattering tell-all. And if he gets a whiff that this guy’s sabotaging him, doing some stupid, lying exposé, he’ll have lawyers involved so fast, it’ll never see the light of day.

“Tell him to wait there. I'll be right down.”

“Yes, Mr. Drost.” Penny coughs and sniffles distantly, away from the phone, irritating Drost one last time.

By the time he gets down to the lobby, Penny is nowhere to be seen, and Steve is sitting alone at his desk. Steve is middle-aged, his brown hair parted neatly on one side, in a beige security uniform with a badge on his shirt pocket. He sees Drost and gets a little startled in his chair, then quickly stands up.

“Good evening, Mr. Drost!”

“Well?” Drost glances around, seeing no one waiting for him. “Where is he?”

A look of confusion alights on Steve’s face. “Sorry, sir?”

“The guy!” Drost barks. “The guy Penny was talking about — McGee, or something? The writer.”

“Um — Penny, sir?” Steve parrots.

“Wasn't she just here? Like, a minute ago. She said there was someone waiting to meet me.” Drost is almost shouting. “Were you asleep or something? She just called me, not more than five minutes… oh, for Pete’s sakes. Did you just see Penny — my assistant –– walk past here?”

Steve has the blank look of a deer in headlights. “I didn't… I don't… Did she? Do you know what she looks like? I mean, of course you do. Maybe I turned around for a second. I…”

“Is there a visitor sign-in log?” Drost says impatiently.

“It's right here, sir.” Steve hurriedly picks up a large, hard-bound book from his desk under the counter, and turns it around so Drost can read it. “It says here that the last visitor — ”

“ — came at 4:45. I can read that myself, you waste of space.” Drost traces his finger down the list, tapping at the last entry, and then touches his chin to wonder at the incongruity of Penny's phone call, and at her funny voice. She hadn't been acting sick today, and he was pretty sure that she didn't tell him about any doctor’s appointment.

Steve really is a human brick. Drost will make sure he's gone tomorrow.

“Don't let anyone in,” he says to Steve. “You got that? Anyone suspicious tries to get through, buzz me right away. Then call the police. You understand?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Drost.” Steve looks terrified. Unconsciously, his hand lightly brushes his badge and then his belt. It finally comes to rest on the waist of his pants. Drost glances at him contemptuously, and then turns around.

Does he have to do everything around here?

Drost ponders the phone call all the way up. As soon as he gets out of the elevator, he starts a text to Penny. His eyes can't focus well, and he’s not the fastest texter, so the text comes out with a jumble of misspellings.

Agh, screw it! He checks the caller I.D. of the last phone call, and notices, regrettably, that it says “Unknown.” How could he have missed that? Opening the door to his office, Drost is just about to dial Penny’s number when he notices that the television is on in his office, loudly broadcasting an evening entertainment gossip show.

Funny. He doesn't remember leaving it on. Did he?

“I was just catching up on today’s funny news. Hope you don't mind, Trenton?” A woman’s voice announces her presence.

Drost twists his head to see her on his sofa — a new jonquil Italian leather one, alas –– on the opposite end of the room. Her voice sounds deeper, but alarmingly familiar. In fact, Drost was just on the phone with her, as “Penny.”

She is petite, and damned attractive, he thinks, her tight little body wrapped in a black corset, a lace collar framing her fine neck, boots up to her thighs, her eyes covered by unusual, opaque, red sunglasses, something like a visor.

The only thing that worries him is a big recurve bow, almost as big as she is, resting on the floor next to her. He checks quickly, and there is indeed a sheaf of arrows on her back. The bow and arrows look… pretty badass, he has to admit. Scary, even, in a Halloween-y way. But sexy, definitely sexy. She's hot.

He has a sudden realization, studying the runes on the upper limb of her bow. She’s the One, isn't she? The one they call the Cupid. Well, she’s not bad! So tiny!

A babe dressed to kill!

Anyway, she's another weirdo in a costume. But at least she's only a woman.

“What do you want?” he asks brusquely.

“Tsk tsk,” the Cupid answers. “Manners, Trenton! _Good evening, miss. How do you do? Fine weather we’re having for this time of year. Shall I introduce myself?_ Did your mother never teach you how to greet people?”

“What do you want, lady? Let's just get it over with.”

He runs a hand through his hair, greasy with product and nerves, wondering why she is here instead of the Catguy. Did something happen to him?

Maybe she's here asking for money. Women are more sympathetic and appealing, at least to him. He grimaces knowingly. It always comes down to this, doesn't it? These criminals are no different from anyone else. They love the Benjamins, principle or no principle. Everyone wants a little grease. He wonders how much they want, hoping to limit the amount to the low seven figures.

“Is it money? Fine.” He lowers his chin and watches her placid expression, her lips curled in amusement. She's hard to read, but receptive, he thinks. He pulls out a checkbook from the desk. “Let’s negotiate. We’re all businessmen… uh… business people, right? You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours.”

“Oh, goody!” the Cupid exclaims, sitting up straighter. “Trenton, I knew you were reasonable!”

Drost smiles. Called it! Greedy bitch, he knows how they all work. This is his field of expertise. They're talking his language now.

“So let’s talk terms,” he answers. “I'm sure we can come to an agreement. I pay you, you leave me alone, maybe clear up some obstacles for me along the way?” He lifts one eyebrow in what he thinks is a charming way.

“Do you mean — I'd be working for you?” Her voice is icily patronizing.

“ _With_ me, Cupid. You'll be on the Drost team, best team in the world. I'm the best, you see? You won't be disappointed.” He offers a full smile. “I can be very generous.”

“Wow! I would be so honored,” the Cupid says in a monotone, her face impassive. Even Drost can't miss her heavy sarcasm. “To work under you? That's been my lifelong goal. I can't believe I've worked hard my entire life, and now, finally, I get to fulfill my dreams. I wonder what benefits you offer to new employees, Trenton. Health insurance? Dental? A pre-nup?”

“Ha! Good one,” Drost laughs uncomfortably. He unbuttons the top button of his shirt and loosens his tie, opening his collar. “Whatever you want. I'm sure we can arrange it.”

“Oh, I believe you,” the Cupid says, with mock sincerity. “You've always been a man of your word.”

Drost chokes out a half chuckle. He smirks, mentally patting himself on the back. Women! They seem complicated, but are really all the same. Simple creatures wanting to please men, right? They wilt before a powerful man, a decisive man. And he's the manliest.

The Cupid flicks the remote to change the television channel.

“In fact, I’d like to remind you exactly how you do business, Trenton. Bear with me.” She turns to the television. “Exhibit A.”

A newscast flashes up on screen, detailing a federal decision regarding Drost University, a for-profit institution that has been fined $40 million for defrauding students. Allegedly people had enrolled to learn Drost’s real estate management techniques, but had never received actual instruction. A lady on screen is being interviewed.

“He sued me,” she says. “His company filed suit against me after I published my experiences about Drost University in the Gotham Times.”

“What happens now, after the federal ruling?” the reporter asks.

“Maybe I’ll get a small compensation,” the lady answers, “but I don't have much hope. I’ve already lost so much money. His tactic is to intimidate people who have no power. Drost is a bully.”

“Thank you for your time,” the reporter says, turning to the camera. “As you can see, Mark, Trenton Drost continues his pattern of litigating his adversaries until they give up, be they corporations or the average person on the street. Now back to you.”

Drost makes an annoyed sound and throws his hands up. He runs his hand through his hair again, flicking it out of the way.

“Drost University,” the Cupid gets his attention. “Seems like a fine legacy, Trenton. It’s so nice that you believe in educating the next generation.”

“I'm not going to discuss that,” Drost replies. “I hired bad people. That's not on me, though I'm paying for it, aren't I?”

“Are you?” The Cupid questions cryptically, “Maybe. We’ll soon see.” She advances the video. “Exhibit B.”

Onsite footage of the collapsed LAIRE building shows up onscreen. Workers are carting away the debris, brick by brick. Some of them aren’t wearing hard hats, and some look like they’ve been recruited off the street — which, in fact, they have.

The screen cuts to a woman with a microphone, standing in front of marching, picketing workers.

“Good evening. I'm standing in front of workers hired by the Drost Corporation,” the news reporter announces. “They claim to represent fellow workers who are illegal immigrants. Allegedly, they have been hired to clean up the debris of the recently destroyed LAIRE hotel, at the rate of $5 per hour. They claim that after completion of the work, Drost officials refused to pay them, and threatened to report them to the immigration agency if they complained.”

“That's not true!” Drost turns toward the Cupid and exclaims. “They missed work! I'm not going to pay people who don't show up!” His forehead is glistening with grease and sweat.

“The workers claim that they were told that immigration officials would review work visas at the work site,” the reporter continues in the video. “Many were too fearful to return to the jobs, leaving behind their paychecks. They also claim they were not given the proper safety equipment, working to remove debris with bare hands, without gloves or helmets as required by law.”

The Cupid pauses the video to address him. “There's much more, Trenton, but I'm bored already. I have a funny feeling, don’t you? Like we’re re-enacting some kind of modern Dickensian story.”

“What are you talking about, you lunatic?” Drost wipes his forehead and upper lip with a handkerchief, then tucks it back in his pocket. Flustered, he puts both hands on his waist. His shirt is glazed with a fine sheen of perspiration, his armpits damp.

“ _A Christmas Carol._ Have you never read it?”

“‘Course I have,” Drost retorts, his spittle flying to the ground. “I've seen the movie.”

“Do you recognize yourself?”

The Cupid shifts so that she's sitting on the edge of the sofa, her head cocked with one ear toward him, facing away. Her arms are crossed in front, elbows resting on her knees.

Drost notices the defined shadows of her upper arms and shoulders, the lean, toned muscles rippling with the smallest movements. He also notices that the muscles around her eyes are moving everywhere — everywhere but on him. She's _blind_ , he realizes. It's true. It's not an urban legend. She really is blind.

“Look,” Drost says, “this is ridiculous. We’re both wasting time. Name your price, lady, or get out.”

The Cupid ignores him and continues. “I love the classics, don't you? They're so well-constructed. The hero gets his reward, the villain gets his punishment. People who deserve redemption get a second chance.

“Take Ebenezer Scrooge, for example,” she goes on, her lilting voice a bit louder. Drost listens impatiently, brows knitted in consternation. “A classic anti-hero. He’s mean-spirited; he's a miser, a bully. He doesn't believe in charity. He exploits Bob Cratchit. He doesn't even like Tiny Tim! Imagine being that guy! Surely it's a caricature!”

Drost paces, his lower lip jutting out, stewing in anger and disagreement. He doesn't agree with her point, and he never liked that preachy story in the first place. That’s just not how things are in real life. Ghosts and spirits don't exist. It's just a story to scare superstitious people. People like him rule the world.

“I'm calling security,” he says.

He reaches into his pocket to take out his phone. In his peripheral vision, he sees the Cupid rise from the sofa, with a serpentine, athletic motion, like a cobra uncoiling. As he races to unlock the phone and dial, he feels a stinging rebuke of pain in his hand, as an arrow shatters his phone from his hand, missing his palm by millimeters.

“You bitch!” he shouts, holding his right hand. There's no blood, thank God. “What — You and your — your fucked-up cronies, and Batman, you're all — ”

“Can you imagine,” the Cupid interrupts, her body turned obliquely, one leg in front of the other and the bow still up, “Scrooge trying to negotiate with the ghosts? Would’ve been a different kind of story, wouldn't it? Sadly, some people are immune to moral lessons.”

Drost shakes his hand out, the pain nearly unbearable. His phone lies cracked and broken, the edges snapped open. The Cupid is armed and deranged, and he's trapped. He glances toward his desk. In the third drawer down, there's an unloaded 9 mm Glock, but it might as well be a paperweight right now.

“You fucking cunt!” he blurts.

“Whoa! Unnecessary roughness! That's no way to talk to a lady, Trenton.” She smiles. “And you've always been a gentleman.”

She bends slightly at the waist to retrieve something behind her. When she turns around, he sees that she’s holding a small, black, plastic box in her palm, the size of a pillbox.

“Catch!” she orders. A sideways flick of her wrist casts the projectile toward his crotch. Drost blinks as it explodes in his hands, sending electric shocks into his body. He bends over, his hands shuddering in front of his crotch, unable to touch it for the pain.

“Aggghhh!” Drost screeches. “Ughhh! Ahhh!”

“Oops! Guess my hand slipped,” the Cupid cocks her head and says blithely. “We girls can be so clumsy. That was a flying taser, Trenton, and I hope for your sake that it isn't too tender, if you know what's to come. Oh, and I have a personal message for you.”

She picks up the television remote and clicks it once more, showing a seated passenger in the back seat of a car. It shows a beautiful woman in a blindfold, her copper-colored hair curled about her shoulders as neatly as if she’s posing for a photo shoot. She sits with her hands in front of her, her lips firm with distress.

Drost gazes up at the television with tears in his eyes, his hands still hovering near his pants, swatting invisible gnats. His muttering shuts down when he recognizes the woman on screen.

“Trenton?” Marina says to the person filming. “I don't know what's happening. Please — please, do what they say. Please…”

The footage cuts off, and the screen flips immediately to a dimly lit setting, so dark that it's difficult to make out anything in it. The video is almost silent but for the ambient hissing of recording. It seems to be the interior of a room somewhere, with pipes along the walls and large storage tanks.

“What did you do with her?” Drost cries. “Where is she?”

“Patience,” the Cupid calmly replies. She focuses her attention on the screen, and tips her chin while she answers. “Do you know where this is, Trenton?”

Drost distorts his face into an angry snarl. He begins to advance, but stops short when the Cupid rapidly draws an arrow, aiming it squarely at him.

“Stay,” she commands.

Drost glances down once more at his destroyed phone, and then at her bow and arrow. He shudders and hops gingerly from foot to foot. The pain in his groin has become concentrated right between the legs, in his sensitive parts. Tiny, needle-like shocks shoot in.

“Good boy,” the Cupid says sweetly, directing his attention to the screen. “Watch.”

The footage is from a handheld camera, moving quickly through the room. It approaches a large, stainless steel tank, and then is set down to face the dark gray, patternless ceiling.

After a few long minutes, the camera is retrieved, and raised to show the interior of the tank. It is filled to the brim with a dark, murky liquid, with a swirl of color that seems still darker, mixing into the water like smoke rising into night air. The camera flips its face, and Drost catches a brief glimpse of a black leather suit, a pointed ear, a leather glove over long, thin, claw-enforced fingers.

His shallow breaths halt. The Catman.

“This is real time, my dear. My poison is now in your emergency water tank. In a minute, the access to all other sources of water to this building will be shut off, and this tank will be opened.”

“I — I don't believe you,” he whines unsteadily. “Isn't — ? Steve is — there’s someone guarding the desk downstairs. That's the only way in or out…”

“Is it?” The Cupid smiles. “I must have flown right through the walls then. Maybe ghosts are real.” She gives a mirthless, tinkling chuckle. “Trenton, I have to say, you suck at negotiations.” She stares into the distance of the ceiling for a few beats. “Should be ready now. You can test it out. Go on, turn on the tap.”

Drost narrows his eyes suspiciously. His lips purse into a painful smirk, and then he hobbles to the sink under the liquor cabinet and turns on the faucet.

Clear water stutters out in irregular bursts, then stops altogether. Drost perfunctorily taps the faucet, hitting the spigot. Three more seconds later, a thin, steady stream of pink-tinged liquid emerges, sensuous and unnatural in its electric color. The flow increases slowly to normal volume, creating a swirling pink puddle that pools at the base of the marble sink.

Drost stares at it with pained fascination. His hand wanders toward it reflexively, letting the water sieve through his fingers. It feels cold and thin. The liquid is beautifully colored, however, like a silk veil or a cascade of quartz crystals. Drost suddenly realizes what the pink color is, abruptly shuts the spigot off, and takes out his handkerchief to wipe his hand. Both hands have become lightly stained.

Drost flips his blond hair and roughly pushes the strands out of his face. His hairline is stained sickly pink.

The room is getting hot, isn't it? Despite the persistent throb in his groin, he no longer cares. He strips off his tie and shrugs off his jacket, tossing it on his desk.

The Cupid is standing with her weight shifted to one hip and… she looks _so damn good._ Drost licks his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his stained hand. He begins to unbutton his shirt almost unconsciously, not paying attention to the details.

“Sweetie, this party’s getting stale,” the Cupid languidly says. She shifts and turns to walk away. “I'm sorry to leave, Trenton, but I'm not into watching beasts pleasure themselves. The door will be locked after me. In twenty minutes, the Gotham police will come rescue you, along with Gotham’s finest media, to cover the rescue. It'll be quite the sensational story! Don't you worry. I’ve instructed them to bring their telephoto lenses, to capture your furiously busy, incredibly tiny hands.”

Meanwhile, Drost is unbuttoning his trousers. Beads of sweat roll down his forehead, and his clumsy fingers claw uselessly at his zipper. He cries out futilely, unable to form an articulate answer. Pain is mixed inexorably with an insatiable sexual urge. He spurs on his own torture.

“You're about to have the happiest –– and worst –– three minutes of your life.” She feels almost sympathetic as he trips on his trouser legs, falling on the floor. “Wife in peril, hands on your fried cocktail mushroom. It just doesn't get any better than that.”

As she prepares to leave, the Cupid switches the television remote on once more. A video of her face fills the screen, addressing the viewer.

“I’d like to propose a trade,” the on-screen Cupid announces. “Marina Drost, for Batman. Marina’s safe with us, and she’ll stay safe, as long as he comes quietly. Otherwise, I can make no promises. Batman, sweetheart,” her lips curve into a dark smile, “it’s your move.”

The screen clicks off. The Cupid tosses the remote onto the floor. She glances at Drost’s rapidly deteriorating state with icy disdain.

“I’m sorry you won’t remember any of this, Trenton. I would have liked for you to relive this moment, to know who did this to you,” she muses. “A girl. An anonymous, blind _girl_.”

The Cupid leaves, locking the door behind her. A series of low-pitched grunts and groans oozes out from behind the door. The Cupid walks in a leisurely pace down the hallway, and after fifteen yards or so, turns and lets fly a message into the door with a dark crimson arrow, which she has brought along especially for this occasion. An elegant, matching crimson feather trails from its end. The arrow pierces the door perpendicularly, with a loud thwick!

A message unfurls on black satin.

The golden Bat signal is illuminated against the dark background. Crimson letters are written across the signal.

**Venit Amor.**

_Come to love._

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

 _I drew a line_  
_I drew a line for you_

 

 

In a large, luxuriously furnished gym inside the Manor, a treadmill slows to a stop. Louis Tomlinson steps off, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. His body simmers with nervous energy, He wonders whether he should go another two miles, even though he's already done six.

He goes over to add discs of weights to the bench press, and then lies down, lifting the bar to start his reps. The pressure in his shoulders travels to the sharp ache in the left side of his neck, where the cuts have scabbed over. The burn in his arms feels good. It’s pushing him toward an edge. He relishes the soreness traveling down.

The pain kindles like a fire in his neck. It seems to coalesce in an image in his mind. Louis sees a multitude of colors first — a spectrum.

_Rainbow colors._

_A plastic play tunnel._

The bar of weights rests heavily on his chest. Louis has an odd sensation of déjà vu, as if the image comes from recent experience — yet he has no recollection of seeing anything like it. Not being around children, he hasn't seen a play tunnel in years. He wonders why he sees the tunnel now… It must have to do with his recent amnesia. Then, without warning, other images start to emerge.

_A puff of pink powder… from a black, gloved hand..._

_A hotel hallway._

_Darkness. Panic._

_Door 12._

The images race by in an amorphous sequence, jumbled together, making no sense. Underneath it all is a feeling of unease, somewhere between savagery and tenderness. Louis knits his eyebrows, chasing this feeling, trying to see more. His nose wrinkles in concentration.

_A kiss._

Louis remembers the sad and anxious touch of the lips, tinged with fear. Something about it isn't right.

_His hand reaching out to pull a face closer… an enthralling softness._

_The wound to the neck… a sudden flash of pain._

His neck tingles with the freshness of the scratch, and his mouth feels the intensity — the voluptuousness — of that kiss.

Harry must have etched an indelible memory. No one else could have done it.

In his mind’s eye, Louis can see the four parallel razor marks on his neck, feel the rapid, decisive motion of the claw ripping the flesh open. Involuntarily, he shudders, remembering the sting of it. Still, there's something more, something he's missing.

The sharp edge of a clue scratches at Louis’ inner skull, like a dog wanting to come inside. He closes his eyes and shuts everything else out.

The clue lies in his neck wound. The itch of it, both the physical discomfort and the answer nagging at his brain, bothers him, like a thread lost in a labyrinth.

What did Zayn say? Something about blood...

_The Leopard’s Blood, Pardi sanguinem camellia. The flower of the poison._

_The blood..._

_The poison._

The _blood_. _His blood._

Suddenly, an acute realization kicks him wide awake. It was in the sequence! Harry had scratched him — of course he did — but the scratch happened before he released the poison...

Harry _wanted_ Louis to bleed.

The scratch was to save him from the effects of the poison.

Louis’ blood was the antidote. Louis had thought it was to hurt him, but in fact — _it was to protect him._

Furthermore, he thinks back to the first time — the scratch to his face — at the museum. The first time that Harry scratched him had taken place before the poison’s release, too. Whether intentional or not, Louis has always had his own shield of protection from the poison.

He feels stupid for not seeing it before. It’s so obvious!

Louis shifts the barbell back on its stand. His hands hang onto the sweat-covered steel bar as he lies, paralyzed by thought. His eyes are wide open; his mouth trembling from the discovery.

Harry has been _protecting_ him. All along.

He has shielded Louis under the guise of hurting him. And he did it without ever revealing his intentions. He did it without giving himself, or Louis, away.

And no one knows… or do they?

Louis thought Harry was fighting him, killing him, even. But Harry was giving him a way out — by making him bleed. Not only that, but he was also giving Louis a chance to remember it all.

Even now, the memories are struggling to break in. Louis tries to remember more, but his mind is a blank. Nothing else comes. Louis rubs his eyes hard, and then raises his knees so that both feet rest on the bench. His forearms cross to hug his torso. He’s glad he’s already lying down, because all at once, the room feels like it’s spinning. He breathes in deeply.

He wonders whether he is imagining Harry’s motivations, whether he’s just trying to find excuses for him. Is this true? The timing of the scratches and the poison? Was it just coincidence?

Was he trying to assign Harry feelings he might not really have?

Louis is not unbiased, he knows he’s not. He is falling hard for Harry, again, and there's no objective way he can think about him. He doesn't know how, but he can feel Harry’s heart nestled inside his own, beating with his in unison. It feels as real as if Harry were kneeling next to him, right now. Louis feels this so viscerally that he knows it's true, even though he remembers so little.

_The darkness. The pink powder. The kiss._

And _then_ what? Louis wants to knock his head, hard, against the wall. _Then what? What happened? Why does he feel like this?_

He thinks of the first time he followed Harry into the white building, into his hideout. Louis can see Harry as the Cat, quietly kneeling, waiting for Batman to tie a blindfold around his eyes. Harry’s trust in him tears into Louis’ heart. He can picture the delicate shape of Harry’s head, the pointed ears of his mask, the stray curl peeking out of an edge. He can see the upward curve of Harry’s lip, the soft spray of facial hair around it, the changing shape as he smiles, the feeling of its softness as they kissed.

How long has Harry known?

Louis remembers a conversation in the coffee shop, one fine summer day, too early in the morning.

It was their breakfast date at the Wicked Brew, near the Gotham reservoir. The sun was streaming through wooden slats at the window as one of them, the one with dark brown curls and green eyes, asked an innocent question, born of an impossible desire.

“Why does it always have to be you?” Harry, as Edward, had asked Louis. “Why can't it be someone else?”

Louis’ lips form a wistful smile. He remembers Harry’s upward gaze, his luminous eyes behind the ruffle of lashes. He remembers his beguiling, breath-taking beauty — even in a white T-shirt and jeans — and his air of purity tinged with menace.

Harry had asked Louis the ultimate question. Harry knew that Louis was Batman then, had known since he recognized him on the Boardwalk. He had started their first sexual encounter, and had chosen to continue, despite everything.

Louis thinks of Harry kneeling, his submission. He thinks of Harry saying, in his indomitable voice, “Green… still green…”

Harry did all of it, despite knowing, deep down, that resolution was impossible. He must have known, right? Once the games started, there was only one way it would end.

They were on opposite sides of a fundamental conflict — good versus evil, the vigilante versus the criminal, the sheriff and the outlaw. One of them would win, and the other would lose.

Isn't that right? There’s only one way this can end.

But something keeps nagging at Louis; something that just doesn't add up. If their fight to the death is a foregone conclusion, why would Harry take this risk? Why the scratches, the bleeding, the sexual games — why do any of it?

Harry could have killed him, as Liam said. So many times, he could have taken advantage of the situation, or of Louis’ momentary weakness, and killed him. Yet he didn't.

Harry had persisted. He had _hoped_.

Harry had hoped for something different for them. He tried. He planned. He did it in his own way, trying to win it all.

_He plays to win._

Louis could kick himself for not understanding these words sooner. He wants to pull Harry close, to squeeze him and love him.

Louis feels a slash of tenderness that makes his chest ache. He is so deep in thought that he doesn't hear the door open, or footsteps running toward him. He doesn't snap out of it until Liam is almost right next to him.

“Lou!”

Louis notices Liam’s expression of alarm. He seems to be in a hurry, appearing both agitated and excited.

“Liam, what’s the matter?”

“They have Marina Drost!” Liam announces, breathless. He twists his upper body to search for something. “Where’s your remote?”

He finds the television remote on the carpet, near the wall. After turning it on and pushing a few buttons, Liam locates the channel he’s looking for, a broadcast of Trenton Drost’s rescue. Louis sits up and pays attention.

The screen shows the interior of Drost’s building, in the hallway outside his office. The harsh fluorescent lights cast sterile shadows. Rescue workers in hazmat suits and heavy gloves are wheeling Drost out — kicking and incoherent — on an emergency stretcher.

“Who is that?” Louis asks. “What is this, Liam?”

“Trenton Drost’s downtown building. Just happened a while ago. There was — an incident. Watch.”

Although the cameras are discreet, it's obvious that Drost is both nude and delusional. He's struggling violently against his rescuers, flipping them the bird with one hand, making an unmistakable motion on his crotch with the other. His face is flushed a deep, ruddy shade, and his thin blond strands are flipped every which way. The rescuers alternate between secretly laughing and showing deep embarrassment. They move awkwardly and haltingly. Without unnecessary contact, they are trying to restrain him, but Drost keeps resisting and sitting up. They handle Drost as if he were biohazardous material which, in many ways, he is.

“Wow,” Louis comments drily. His hand rests on his chin, his fingers skimming a broad, amused smile. “What have we here?”

“A mess,” Liam quickly answers. “The Cupid’s poison was dumped into the emergency water tank at Drost’s building downtown. It's gone through the building now, and the police have sealed the entire place.”

“An entire building?” Louis’ eyebrows rise incredulously. “You're kidding me. The run-off is in the sewers?”

Liam nods briefly. “We don't even know what’s going on inside.” Liam glances at Louis. “Luckily, many of the employees had left for the day. But Drost likes to keep them late, and there were still thirty or forty people in the building.”

“Do we know the level of exposure?” Louis says. “That is a lot of… horny… office workers.”

“Louis, please don't,” Liam answers. “I can't even unsee Drost’s little — ” his hand makes a jerking motion — “It’s pretty awful as it is. Don't make it worse.”

Louis bursts out laughing, but then glances back to the television, to see Drost trying to slap a rescuer with his flappy fingers. The rescuer weaves, dodging him. Louis shakes his head in disbelief.

“So, what's the scoop?” Louis asks. “Has Zayn tapped into their security?”

Liam shakes his head quickly. “I just got the news alert and checked it out immediately. Came straight here to find you. Haven't talked to Zaynie yet.”

Louis cocks his head and ponders. A weight sinks down on him as he says, “It's them, isn't it? The Cupid’s team.”

“No doubt.”

Liam appears distressed. He paces in place briefly, mouth turned down, then exchanges a look of concern with Louis. His expression asks Louis what they should do next. Louis contemplates for a moment, staring at the television screen.

He asks, “What about Marina Drost?”

Liam takes out his phone, unlocks it, and then searches until he finds the video.

“This was uploaded to GCPD headquarters, straight to Commissioner Gordon’s feed,” he says, handing the phone to Louis. “I did a quick scan through our line just now. Not even ten minutes ago.”

The video is of the blindfolded Marina Drost in the backseat of a car. It is the video that the Cupid had shown to Drost, and apparently had been saved to the GCPD security files.

Louis’ eyes grow darker as he watches the video. After it abruptly shuts off, he continues watching the footage of the handheld camera, weaving in and out between the stainless steel tanks of the emergency water supply.

He knows, as surely as his gut instinct has ever told him, that it’s Harry carrying the poison to the water tanks. The suspicion is confirmed when he sees a brief glimpse of a black leather glove, the long, slim fingers, a momentary exposure of the Cat’s pointed ear on his mask.

Out of nowhere, a twinge of tenderness pierces him. Louis smells a hallucinatory whiff of leather and jasmine, a mixture of scents that evokes images of green eyes and a cat-shaped cut-out on a leather collar. Disturbed, Louis shakes his head, trying to get rid of them.

“Is this…”

“The security footage from the building, yes,” Liam answers. “And yes, most likely it's the Cat adding poison to the water, and before that, kidnapping Marina Drost.”

“No…” Louis can't reconcile this information with what he knows about Harry. It goes against everything he has just figured out, about Harry’s protecting him and wanting to be with him. It's so contradictory that everything feels wrong, and nothing seems to make sense.

 _Or,_ his head tells him, _maybe you don't want to believe the reality of it, because you're in love with him._

“You’re not going to want to see this then,” Liam says. He shows Louis the video footage of the Cupid’s demand for a trade between Marina and Batman. They exchange somber looks. 

“Liam,” Louis says, “Zayn needs to see this. Can you find him? We need to locate Marina Drost. Maybe we can — ”

“That's _exactly_ what they want,” Liam cuts him off. “Didn’t you see it? She's bait. The Cupid wants you.”

Louis has nothing to say.

“Marina Drost is just collateral damage,” Liam continues. “They're waiting for Batman. You were the target, all along. Deep down, you knew that, didn't you? You know I’m right, Lou. You're walking into a trap. You have been, this entire time.”

Louis gazes down at the phone, now staring blankly back at him. Stung by Liam’s words, he stays silent for a few minutes.

Finally, he replies, defenseless, “I don't believe that.”

“Why not?” Liam retorts, his voice raised in frustration. “Because you're some sort of indestructible superhero? Or are you a lovesick teenager? Or do you believe in giving second chances, so much so that you give them to people who don't deserve them?” Liam runs a hand through his hair, agitated. “I know you want to save everyone, Lou, but these are _not_ good people. They’ll _never_ be good. You get me? You're wasting your time if you think otherwise. How long have you — have we — been doing this? If you don't believe me, believe your own two damn eyes.”

Louis looks away, feeling chastised. He stands up and takes a step, and watches as Liam backs away. Their positions circle each other, never coming close. He puts Liam’s phone down on the weight bench.

“Find Zayn,” Louis finally says wearily. “I'll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

Louis begins walking out of the room with determined, measured strides, not looking back. His voice is stern as he shouts, “Just find Zayn!”

Liam stares helplessly at his friend’s receding back. He knows they are out of options, and the police will never find Marina Drost in time. Nothing can satisfy the Cupid except for Batman. She has created a city-wide hunt for him. Everyone is watching to see what he will do; Drost’s wife is merely an appetizer.

“Be careful!” Liam yells. He knows it's powerless, like blessing a tree, or a rock.

It is what it is.

Liam picks up his phone, and then turns and walks quickly out of the room, toward the rear of the Manor, to the secret staircase leading to the Batcave. He will need to track Louis, and confer with Zayn. They have no time to lose.

 

 

•••

 

 

Batman’s motorcycle pulls out of the concealed garage and onto the country road. The silhouettes of tall wildflowers waver like smoke in the dimming, evening light. Dust eddies from the ground. The engine roars as it shifts into higher gear, the echoes ricocheting in the dark.

The road into Gotham is nearly deserted at this time of night. Batman guns his engines, his cape billowing like an explosion behind him. It’s a liability — the cape. The wind makes it unpredictable, Batman knows this.

Sometimes what might save him is also that which ensnares him.

He tucks his head down and focuses straight ahead, following the long, powerful beam from the motorcycle’s headlight. The occasional car passes him with a loud rush. Otherwise the landscape is uniformly gray.

The motorcycle glides down the roads leading into southeastern Gotham, through the desolate neighborhoods, the empty streets with broken traffic lights and cracked potholes. A few stragglers loiter on the sidewalks. They swivel their heads when they hear the motorcycle in the distance, then silently duck under eaves and around street corners when they get a glimpse of the hulking silhouette — the pointed ears of the mask, the black bodysuit, the billowing cape. The speed of the motorcycle seethes with anger, chasing something ineffable. They sense this dark energy and scoot out of the way.

The motorcycle slows as it approaches the white building, reflecting the light of the moon like some eerie, nocturnal spacecraft. All the lights have been extinguished— all except one, unseen from the street, on the second floor of the building. It doesn't need to be seen. Batman knows exactly where it is.

The garage door has been left open, and the interior is pitch black, like the maw of an ancient beast. The motorcycle pauses at the entrance, the engine quietly humming. There's nothing and no one else around. Batman glances at the building’s façade, a dull eggshell, belying nothing. Its industrial blandness conceals all. His pulse thudding, Batman unconsciously chews on his upper lip.

No backing out now. Come on.

Batman revs the motor and enters, carefully steering the motorcycle through the empty garage. The door stays open. The cavernous space, insulated from the street, amplifies the sound of the motorcycle to a staticky cacophony.

The motorcycle steers straight toward the elevator, which remains closed. Batman parks the bike, gets off, and pats his waist down out of habit, checking his belt for the grappling hook, the pneumatic mangle, and the suction cup.

He rechecks the space where his dagger should be. There must be a mistake, he thinks. He feels only a negative space. How could that be? He doesn't recall taking the dagger out.

He runs his hand over the space again — nothing. How could he have been so careless? Zayn probably didn't have time to re-arm the suit after the last encounter. A sloppy oversight — hopefully, not a fatal one. Too late now, anyway.

He punches the elevator button, and waits to enter.

Once he’s inside, the elevator rises slowly. It opens to a darkened hallway, illuminated only by the weak, distant glow from the Cat’s Lair. There is no sound, not even the ambient sound of air drafts or the crackle of electricity. Batman stops to sense any activity, and when he feels none, continues down the hallway. The door to the room is cracked open. White light seeps through.

Batman knows that both the Cupid and the Cat can sense him coming a mile away. He feels like he is walking loudly enough to wake the dead. Nevertheless, he kicks the door forcefully and jumps aside. When no attack comes, he sneaks a quick glance into the room. There is no motion, no sound, just the recoil of the door swinging back.

He shoves the door open and barrels into the room, ready for confrontation. Immediately, he notices the absence of anything in the room. The furniture — the chairs, the bed — all are gone. The walls have been stripped bare. Nothing remains to indicate anyone was ever here — nothing except a desk against the wall, where the Cat had kept his deadly bolla lasso.

There’s no lasso there now, although the desk isn't empty. Two rectangular objects have been laid down side by side, their perfectly symmetrical placement making clear that it has been done intentionally, for him to find. Batman’s heart lurches when he recognizes them.

Zayn’s computer tablets.

He approaches and picks one up. The tablets are as he remembers them, black, with a thin, scuffed protective cover. He has held them hundreds of times, while chatting with Liam and Zayn in the kitchen, scrolling through the news. He can picture Zayn holding a tablet while scolding and laughing at him.

The tablets look inert now, misplaced, devoid of life. They have been unlocked and wiped clean, stripped of any software or content. The backgrounds show only a white blankness.

On one of the tablets is a short and simple note:

 

  
**GOTHAM RESERVOIR**

**12 MIDNIGHT**

  
**COME ALONE**

 

**COME PLAY WITH ZAYN**

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

>  

_And it was all yellow._

 

 

  
Batman’s motorcycle rumbles into the pitch dark grounds of the Giordano Botanical Garden. The Outer Garden is a series of winding, two-way roads looping around the wooded periphery, which eventually cuts through to the Gotham reservoir system.

On top of a hill is the renowned Martello Rose Garden, in which roses named after famous beauties and stars make their home. The Judy Garland, a resplendent dusky blue tea rose, is next to the mauve double English rose named Kate Winslet. Elizabeth Taylor, a hybrid tea in smoldering scarlet, blooms next to the baby pink Brigitte Bardot.

In the ink of the late summer midnight, all that exists of roses is their elusive fragrance — almost as weightless as Batman’s choice to turn around and go back.

As Batman is leaving the Cat’s building, he decides not to tell Liam about Zayn’s kidnapping.

Liam has probably figured it out anyway, and is freaking out right now — with good reason.

Therefore, on the way to the Garden, Batman turns his coms off. Liam might be able to track him by GPS, but Batman will not answer his phone. For Zayn’s safety, Batman must do this alone. He can't take any chances. Nothing must come between him and the Cupid.

The dark sycamores and oaks zip by quietly. The road is empty but for the motorcycle’s headlight. Crickets and frogs chirp in the bounty of a wet summer, bound by their proximity to water — pumped from deep within the ground, filtered through the vast Nolan River from the west that empties into Delaware Bay.

The end of the reservoir system consists of the indoor processing plants that chemically purify the waters before distribution to Gotham’s citizens. Large, hangar-like spaces contain enormous pools of water. Millions of gallons pass through each hour.

Batman can see the low, flat silhouette of the plant buildings in the distance, isolated in the vast open fields past the Garden. On one side, the road vanishes toward a horizon. The streetlights on the plant grounds cast overlapping, diaphanous phalanxes in the empty parking lots.

As he approaches the buildings, he sees where he is meant to go. The Cupid has left him some helpful clues.

The blood-red Lamborghini, its brilliant shine concealed by the shadows, is half-hidden on the side of the purification building. Next to it, the bombastic front tire of the Cat’s motorcycle peeks out, its deep treads wavy like snakes.

The gang’s all here. _How fun._

Batman pulls his motorcycle to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, directly under the street lights. He rests for a minute, his palms on the handlebars, and loudly revs his engine.

Might as well announce his presence. She’s summoned him here, after all.

He parks the bike close to the building, and opens the door to the plant, its vast structures shrouded in darkness, the murmur of flowing water like a restless stadium crowd. The immense, open tanks of water lie low to the ground. Their dark colors seem opaque and depthless.

The bodies of water are larger than several Olympic pools joined end to end. At one end, the water sluices through metal filters noiselessly. In the distance, Batman hears a pressurized rush periodically, as water flushes in large quantities into the city’s pipes.

Batman feels his way quietly through the building, although he knows that he is being watched. His body prickles with this knowledge. Unconsciously he touches his belt, and feels for the dagger that’s no longer there.

The building’s spaces are wide open, and there is no sign of either Zayn or the Cupid — no sight of them, and no sound, except for the water’s flow. Batman stays close to the edge of the walkway. In some areas, a safety rail separates the walkway from the water, but mostly it’s wide open.

He follows the sound of water, noticing that the periodic, noisy rush of water is getting louder as he gets closer. Every once in awhile, the building seems to tremble when a gigantic whoosh! occurs, a dull rumbling that grows into a deafening churn, and then releases and quiets again. As he gets closer, Batman sees that the water levels are rapidly lowering and filling back up in the furthermost tank. He’s in the midst of puzzling it out when he happens to glance up and notice something disturbing.

High above the tank of water, something — someone — has been tied and is hanging by a thick rope. The human shape comes into focus the closer he gets. Batman furrows his eyebrows to study him more carefully, and then, suddenly disconcerted, he stops short.

He knows this human silhouette very, very well. The dark swoop of hair hangs limply down. The thin figure with his angular jaw and day-old facial hair is unmistakable. His eyes are covered by a red blindfold. Zayn hangs upside down, hands cuffed behind him and feet tied at the ankles by a suspending rope, connected to the ceiling.

Zayn is about fifteen feet up in the air. He appears to be calmly immobile, but Batman knows that Zayn knows the games haven't even started. He is the sacrificial pawn, pushed out to tempt the dark knight.

Batman stays silent. His eyes trace the thick rope up to the dark gray ceiling, and he notices that it runs across the ceiling, over pipes, and to the far wall, where it disappears behind thicker pipes. As he is studying, he hears the loud racket of metal grates rushing open, and the rumble of water in the tank below Zayn, as its level suddenly lowers, the deafening noise of the water whooshing away. He sees a sudden, twisting jerk from Zayn’s body. Zayn heard it too.

Glancing around, Batman doesn't detect a single person. He starts running across to the far wall. He's not five steps out when a voice stops him in his tracks.

“I wouldn't, if I were you,” a commanding, silky smooth woman’s voice says, amplified through an electronic speaker.

Instinctively, Batman fades back into the shadows, toward the darkest part of the walkway. Then he realizes the illogic in it; darkness and light make no difference to the Blind Cupid. Both she and the Cat can sense him with laser-like accuracy. They've probably been following him since he came in. Nevertheless, he flattens himself against the wall and stills.

“I admire you so, my friend,” the Cupid’s reverberating voice continues. “You're a man of your word, a man of courage, unlike most people.”

From the shadows, Batman tries to assess where this voice is coming from, but the electronic amplification makes it impossible. His eyes scan the space frantically, into the shadowy recesses of every nook and corner.

She's here. _And Harry’s here._

He feels him.

“I hate to be _that_ person who kidnaps your best friend and threatens to kill him, but you're a hard one to persuade, Batman. I usually don't have to try this hard.”

She’s here somewhere. Where could she be hiding? He waits impatiently for her to state her terms, knowing that this is why she summoned him. The game is on.

Meanwhile, Zayn hangs in the air without motion. He’s listening to her too, although the water’s movement, and the distance from the ground, might muffle the clarity of her voice. He hears her, so he knows Batman is here.

“Your friend is safe, as you can see.” Batman smirks at her definition of safety — hanging upside down, fifteen feet above rushing water, cuffed and blindfolded. “I’m glad you decided to use your head rather than make a big production with the Gotham police. Zayn would have felt so — how should I put it? _Let down_ — if you had. You made a wise decision, Batman.”

“Get out of here, Batman!” Zayn’s voice suddenly shoots thinly down from the ceiling. In the darkness, Batman whips his eyes toward him, his heart thudding. Zayn’s body twists from his knees down. “Get out while you can! There's nothing you can do. She's going to kill me anyway — save yourself! And save Gotham!”

“Oh my gosh, how very endearing!” The Cupid makes an appreciative noise. “Such a martyr! So charming! He's smart, and he has such a gallant heart. It would be such a shame to lose a friend like Zayn, wouldn't it? He is a keeper.”

A trickle of laughter escapes, with just a trace of mockery. She continues, “Did you know, he almost discovered the antidote to my poison? He was getting too close for comfort! Smart, talented boy. Maybe the smartest one in your little gang. Oh yes, I know about Liam too. I had a little look around when he was napping, the other night. He’s sweet.”

Batman sees Zayn freeze at the mention of Liam, a stillness indicating his worry for Liam’s safety. Batman suddenly regrets turning off his phone. Damn it. He should have checked in on Liam.

The Cupid goes silent. As if she anticipated it, the metal gates of the basin sluice open with a loud clang, and then the water empties with a terrible roar before quieting back down. The whole process took barely two minutes. Batman estimates that it’s taking about ten minutes between each emptying.

“The water goes through a final filter before it's released to the city,” the Cupid explains. “It’s about fifteen feet deep, in case you're wondering. Plenty deep to drown in love…”

“State your terms, Cupid!” Batman shouts. The air is thick with possible answers.

“Batman!” Zayn exclaims.

“You’re wasting your time in Gotham,” the Cupid announces. “Don't you think so, Batman? Wasting your talent… on people like Trenton Drost — is that who you want to be defending, for the rest of your life? A monomaniacal buffoon? Is he worth all that?”

Batman remembers that Marina Drost is missing too. Where is she? How is he going to find her? His eyes travel to Zayn again.

“Play for the right team, love. Come join me.” The Cupid pauses to let him absorb her words. “Join me, and you'll all be free — Zayn gets to go home to Liam, you get to be the badass vigilante you were always meant to be, and Marina Drost — she’ll be free too. Everyone’s happy. What do you say?”

Batman leans against the wall. Trying to free Zayn is hopeless if the Cupid doesn’t show herself. They will both be open targets, especially Zayn.

If Harry’s with the Cupid, then Batman and Zayn have almost no chance at all. Harry’s too strong, too fast. Batman can't fight him and protect Zayn.

Harry. _Harry..._

A thought flies into Batman’s mind — less than a thought than a vision, maybe, a moth dancing at the periphery of larger things, its wings beating something forward — a shudder of desire, a pang of fear, the bluish, halting darkness of anxiety.

 _It's a red for me, Louis,_ Batman hears Harry’s words, as clearly as a bell. _An absolute red. I can't._

He can't… _do what?_ What can't Harry do? What is his weakness?

The words are laced with the buttery pleasure of arousal. Batman can’t separate the feelings, yet he also becomes increasingly unsettled. His mind itches with tension, racing in a hundred directions. Harry has a weakness.

_Can't… he can't… What can't he do?_

_As Harry?_

_Or the Cat?_

“Come forward,” the Cupid commands. “Trust me, my dear. For Zayn’s sake.”

“Let him down first!” Batman shouts. He waits anxiously for her reply.

After a moment, she speaks.

“Oh, you’ve hurt me, Batman, truly,” the Cupid says coyly. “Where is the love? After everything we’ve been through? There's so little affection in this world, and I had hoped that we could at least — _like_ each other.”

“Let him down!” Batman tries to steady his voice. “You’ve got the Cat. I'm no match for the two of you. You’ll outfight me — and I'm not going to resist you. So let Zayn go.”

“Are you sure? Just let him go?”

For a moment, Batman fears that the Cupid means what she says literally, and Zayn’s body will start falling from the great height. He’s ready to spring forward and save him, when he sees someone step out of the shadows — a tall, lean, familiar frame, the leather suit sculpted to his muscular body, and goggles in front of his pointed ears.

The Cat is watching Batman stoically through his mask. He stands silently, communicating nothing. Then he walks to a mechanical wheel on the wall and turns it with great effort. Batman nervously waits to see what happens.

At first there’s no change at all. As the Cat’s gaze flickers to the water, Batman notices the water’s color gradually acquiring a pinkish tinge. It steeps darker and darker, until it becomes the color of blood. The red highlights dance with every lick of a wave.

 _It’s the Leopard’s Blood poison,_ he realizes. It had been loaded and waiting in a separate tank. The Cat opened a valve to dump it into the last purification tank, which will now be distributed to the city, unless the emptying mechanism can be stopped.

“That's right,” the Cupid announces, anticipating his thoughts. “In thirteen minutes exactly, the poison will be distributed citywide, and then we’ll see how Gotham functions.” Batman sniffs in frustration and grits his jaw. “Big boys and girls at the police department… the crime families in the Bowery… the pickpockets down in the East End… they’ll all be mixing with the snooty theater goers on Park Row. Delicious, isn't it? The Terence Drost drama won't even compare. What do you think? Still not convinced?”

Batman watches the Cat who seems emotionless, staring straight through him. What is his weakness? There _must_ be one, because he told Batman.

_No._

It wasn't the Cat who told him.

It was _Harry_. Harry had said it. Batman is sure of this, feels it in his bones. He can clearly see Harry standing in front of him, saying the words.

So, if that's the case…

“I pride myself on having excellent marksmanship, Batman,” the Cupid interrupts his thoughts. “But once in awhile, I don't mind a demonstration.”

As if to conceal himself even more, Batman flattens himself further into the shadows and holds his breath. He is as still as marble when an arrow torpedoes into the wall next to him, within inches of his right ear. The sound shatters the wall with its force. Batman jerks his head and twists his entire upper body away, coming partially into the light.

“Welcome, Batman! At last! Hands up, please,” the Cupid orders. Batman turns quickly, trying to locate her. “Tsk tsk. I always understood you to be a good listener. Hands in the air! Now! I can assure you the next arrow will send your friend downstream. I’m aiming it at Zayn, right now.”

Batman tilts his head to look at Zayn, whose hands are wriggling, trying to escape from the cuffs. Zayn’s mouth is set in a firm grimace.

“ _Three… two…_ ” The Cupid issues her countdown. Her voice rings like rocks falling from an avalanche.

Batman steps fully into the light and raises his hands.

“I'm yours!” he announces. “Cupid, stop the count.”

He can see Zayn stop his struggle, and then twist his head toward Batman.

“No!” Zayn shouts. “Batman, no!”

Out of nowhere, the Cat appears beside Batman, his bullwhip strapped to his belt. He’s wearing his goggles and avoids Batman’s gaze. Batman waits, his resistance deflated.

Suddenly, violently, the Cat whip kicks Batman’s trunk from the back, painfully dropping him to the ground.

Unfortunately, it’s a familiar sensation for Batman. He clutches his back and tries to see where the Cat’s feet are, to grab an ankle or trip a heel, but the Cat is too fast. He ducks out of the way and is on top of Batman before he can recover.

The Cat straddles Batman at the waist, and pulls his hands behind his back. Soon Batman feels the swift, efficient force of a rope binding his wrists together. He feels the Cat’s powerful thighs strapping his legs in place, immobilizing him. Batman twists and fights to get free, but struggles in vain. The Cat holds the ropes with his hands, and Batman is helpless on the ground. The Cat quickly removes the grappling gun and the pneumatic mangle from his belt and throws them aside.

“Secured, Cupid,” the Cat shouts across the water.

The Cat’s kick has knocked Batman breathless. It’s agony to inhale, even slightly. He takes small, quick gulps of air, his body curled up, elbows extended painfully at his sides. His eyes are misted with sweat, and he can barely see from his position on the ground.

He hears the Cupid’s hard heels strike from across the room, ringing more loudly as she approaches. If steps had feelings, hers would be as smug as a lioness about the vivisect a gazelle.

She appears to be wearing all red, her leotard extending to a high lace collar above her neck, matching the crimson visor around her eyes. Red and black leggings end in fringed boots. She holds a large recurve bow in one hand, with runes carved into the upper limb.

The Cat scrambles from the ground as the Cupid approaches. She bends over to examine Batman coldly.

“I never thought this day would come,” she says with a happy sigh. “You're a hard-headed man, Louis Tomlinson, though you have your charms.”

“Well…” Louis groans, sucking in a breath, “... you did your homework. You found me.”

“Exactly, Mr. Tomlinson! Thanks to my Cat.” The Cupid gestures sweetly to him. The Cat looks on impassively. “Marvelous, isn't he? Cat is a superb work of art. He belongs in a museum, really. My kitty cat impresses me more every day.”

Louis startles at this term of endearment. He doesn’t dare to look at the Cat, but he can feel him stop his movements, too. He’s sure that the Cupid is trying to bait both of them, teasing them. Louis’ heart races at the Cupid’s suggestion of betrayal, but he doesn't quite understand why. If only he could remember… what Harry told him… the Thing he Can’t…

Finally, he stutters. “Wh… where is Marina Drost?”

“Good gracious! Are you seriously concerned about her right now? In your condition?” The Cupid, highly amused, turns to exchange a quick glance with the Cat.

“Where is she?” Louis insists.

“Marina doesn't exist,” the Cupid answers curtly. “Not anymore.”

Louis twists around, trying to catch the Cat’s eyes, but they are still hidden by his night-vision goggles. The Cat stares straight ahead and avoids Louis’ questioning gaze.

“No, Mr. Tomlinson,” a second woman’s voice approaches them from behind them, close to where he had been hiding.

She steps in front of him and stands next to the Cupid. Her auburn hair cascades down to her shoulders, the curls perfectly in place, as if ready for a photo shoot. She wears a forest green Gore-Tex suit, and a green mask around her deeply set, sloe-shaped eyes. On her suit is design of criss-crossing nerves, like a widely spaced spider web. She is taller and bigger than the Cupid, a lithe athlete.

“Marina is dead,” she declares. Her mouth quirks a thin smile. “Meet Psyche.”

Batman hears a soft intake of breath from the Cat. Out of his peripheral vision, he sees him take a tentative step backward, his step wavering. Clearly, Marina’s transformation is unexpected for him, too.

Louis begins, “Mrs. Drost — ”

Marina raises her right hand. On it is a complicated glove attachment, made of a gossamer-thin gold polymer with embedded, microscopic wires.

“Please don't insult me by calling me that.” She waves her hand in the air, just above his body. Batman’s cape slowly levitates and begins to unfurl, spreading out from the edges like an ink stain. “That was a life of lies. I am living my full life now — finally.”

“Marina!” the Cat gasps under his breath.

Psyche glances at the Cat. “Thanks to your advice, Cat. You were right. I finally realized I am more than arm candy. I am a runner and a marksman — a _marksperson_ , if you will.” She lets out a chuckle. “An athlete, who was bored and tired. I never liked the jewelry, the glitter, the parties. I just wanted to have fun. I wanted an adventure. What I was living was a joke.” She turns her head to the Cupid to exchange a warm smile, her hand hovering unflinchingly above Batman’s cape. “Isn't that right, Cupid? _Love has set me free_.”

Her hand slowly turns, as if doing a royal wave, and Batman’s cape follows, revolving around to wrap Batman’s body, cinching him like a cocoon. He tries to move his legs, but the cape holds them together — with a steady, painless squeeze.

 _Her glove must work with electromagnetic waves,_ Louis thinks. But this knowledge makes no difference. He can't activate the ferromagnetic field in his cape. He can barely breathe.

He glances around at the Cat, whose gaze is fixed in Psyche’s direction, lips firmly pinched in a tight line. Batman’s visual field is restricted now, but he cranes his head to try to see Zayn, who has remained silent.

“Let him down,” Louis demands. “You have me now. Let Zayn go.”

The Cupid walks leisurely around Louis and Psyche, whose hand hovers steadfast over him. Each strike of the Cupid’s heels rings like a verdict.

“Do you really think I should, Louis?” She pauses, tilting her head. Louis senses the Cat watching him intently. “Does this mean you’re switching sides, you and Zayn? I could use you both, frankly. But you don't sound very convinced to me.”

Louis spits out his words. “That was our agreement. You promised to honor it. I’m in your power, now let him go.” His stomach knots with dread.

The Cupid shifts her weight, one hand on her chin, her bow hand resting by her hip.

“Zayn Malik almost ruined our plan, Louis. It's almost unforgivable, wouldn't you agree?” She pauses dramatically, weighing her words. “Besides, I know the kind of person you are. You'd never come on our side, would you? You’d die first.”

She walks toward the tank until she is at the edge of the water. Slowly, she reaches behind her and draws out one arrow, the one dressed with sharp, bright, flamingo pink feathers. She raises the bow, loads the arrow, and aims it directly at Zayn.

“You can't!” Louis shouts. His wrists tug against the ropes constricting them. “Cupid, your promise!”

“Batman,” the Cupid says calmly, “you won't be the first to die. That's your tragedy.” She barely wastes a glance at him. “You’ve always wanted to save others, but this time, you’ve failed. You can’t save Zayn, because _you feel too much._ _You care too much._ That is your weakness.”

She lets go. The arrow soars with a deadly whisper, and in less than a second it finds its target — the rope holding Zayn’s feet — severing it.

His body falls through the air and lands with a splash in the red, churning water, disappearing beneath the surface.

“No!” Louis cries out, wild with panic. He tries to inch himself forward, but the cape wraps him in a tight embrace. “No, God, no!”

Louis shouts with a heart-rending despair, haunting and hopeless. The broken sound fills the air. He thinks about Zayn drowning in the water, blind-folded, his mouth filling with the red, poisoned water.

The red water...

_… It's an absolute red, Louis. I can't…_

The phrase drifts into his head. Louis’ mind snaps awake.

The water. It’s absolutely red.

_It's an absolute red. For Harry._

Louis’ vision becomes unfocused. He stares into the distance, trying to find a memory through the layers of his consciousness. Harry is standing before him, trembling with the doubt and anxiety from a past trauma. He looks scared and vulnerable.

_You wouldn't hurt me, would you, Louis?_

_No. Never._

“Harry,” Louis says now, turning toward him. His understanding comes too late, with the knowledge that Harry has become paralyzed by fear. “Harry! The water… it’s the water. You can’t — ”

Harry wrenches off his goggles violently. Even with his mask on, Louis can see Harry’s shocked expression, his wide-open, luminous eyes like a startled cat in the night. Harry looks from the Cupid to Psyche to Louis, rapidly trying to decide what to do.

“Yo, Harry!”

Another male voice shouts from the far corner of the plant. Louis hears some running footsteps, coming closer.

As if by reflex, the Cupid immediately loads another arrow from her quiver, and aims it directly at the intruder. Then, recognizing his voice and steps, she softens her stance.

She smiles, letting the bow drop. “Couldn’t stay away from the excitement?”

“Nope! You know me, Cupid,” Niall says, trying to lighten the mood. Perhaps there’s a strained note in his voice. “Just thought Harry might have left this behind, by accident.”

In the periphery, Louis senses Niall throwing something and Harry catching it. As Harry turns back, Louis recognizes the familiar shape of Batman’s dagger, the one that should have been on his belt. The perfectly balanced blade extends like a part of his hand. Harry flips the hilt, showing a practiced ease.

The Cupid tilts her head. “A bit dramatic, even for you, Harry? It's not every day that a superhero gets killed by his own weapon.”

“Harry!” Louis shouts at him. “There's no time. Cut my ropes — for Zayn, if not for me. Please, Harry! Zayn doesn't deserve to die.”

Harry’s bewildered eyes shift from one person to another. Without moving his head, Niall’s eyes flit over briskly to the tank of red water, and then back to the dagger in Harry’s hand. Then he repeats the lightning-fast eye movement so it is noticed and unambiguous.

Only Harry sees it. Because Niall was holding so still, the Cupid does not sense him at all. Meanwhile, the water churns on without a human sound.

The Cupid commands, “Use the dagger, Cat.”

“Harry!” Louis pleads.

The air feels depleted of oxygen, the silence hissing with tension. In his ears, Louis hears only his own, loud heart beats.

What happens next comes so fast, time seems to dilate, and is all but incomprehensible to Louis.

Harry’s daggered hand darts forward, cutting open Psyche’s glove. A rivulet of blood seeps out from beneath. She cries out and clutches her hand, dropping her hold, and Batman’s cape falls free like a curtain.

As the Cupid stares at him incredulously, Harry turns toward the tank of water, searching for something on the walls and ceiling.

Feeling the cape relax around him, Louis bucks against his restraints and cries out, “Harry! My ties!”

Harry continues frantically searching, but turns to give Louis a coded look.

“It's a true love’s knot,” Harry tells him. “It was never meant to bind you. There’s no time, Lou. You know what to do.”

Hearing these words, Louis forces his hands apart, tugging the ties loose with some effort. The knots fall away. He gathers the rope and shoves it in his belt. He glances over to the Cupid, and then at Harry.

Harry has found what he’s looking for. A pipe hangs down from the ceiling, just within reach of the bullwhip. He fumbles to untie the whip from his belt.

Meanwhile, the Cupid is reaching into her quiver to load an arrow. Quickly, Louis activates the ferromagnetic shield on his cape just as the arrow is loosened.

As the arrow comes closer to Louis, its trajectory bends, as if skirting an invisible shield. It flies wide and pings into a distant wall, hitting something metallic. Louis grabs his pneumatic mangle from the ground and shoots it toward the Cupid.

The Cupid is already turning, however, loading another arrow. She deftly ducks aside as the mangle misses.

This arrow isn't for Louis. This time, it aims for the Cat.

Louis rushes toward her and slams her body to the ground. From the corner of his eyes, he watches Harry sizing up the tank and the pipe in the ceiling.

Harry’s bullwhip lashes out toward the pipe, wrapping tightly around it. Then, without hesitation, Harry takes Batman’s dagger and cuts a large gash in his skin through his costume, from his abdomen across his chest, up to his shoulder. Harry breathes raggedly as bright red blood seeps out, soaking the black leather of the costume.

“Harry!” Louis cries in alarm.

Harry turns his head swiftly. Then he slows down to look at Louis properly, taking time to say goodbye.

As much as his pain allows, Harry calls out, “I love you, Louis.” He winces, struggling to breathe. “So much. Remember that.”

Louis has no chance to answer. The Cupid struggles under him, but her petite frame is no match for Louis’ strength. He grabs her arrows and flings them to the far side of the room, scattering them. Then he scrambles to tie her wrists behind her with his rope. 

Harry holds tightly to the bullwhip and swings across the tank, into the water. With a quiet splash, he disappears beneath the surface.

Louis holds his breath for several counts, but doesn't hear anything. He sees Niall running to the edge of the tank.

Within a few seconds, Niall shouts, “He has him!”

A loud, metallic clang announces the opening of the tank’s sluice. Louis looks frantically at the Cupid, then back to Niall. Making his decision, he lets go of her and rushes toward the tank. He sees the pointed ears of the Cat bobbing above the water’s surface.

The water is a roiling, somber red, the color of the darkest Hell. The level is rapidly dropping. Harry’s shoulder is out of the water, dragging Zayn behind him. They are only yards away from the edge, but the water level is receding fast, and Louis can see that Harry is tiring. His arm can no longer raise much as he weakly paddles against the water. Louis realizes that they are being carried away.

Without hesitation, Louis dives into the water and swims toward them. The heat of sex and anger rises uncontrollably within, but Louis feels something else, something stronger. He grabs Harry’s suit and feels a surge of clarity. He’s not afraid anymore; the sexual urge is fading, as if he’s being protected by —

_Harry’s blood._

Louis understands now, the need for the cut. It bought Harry time to find Zayn, to save him. His blood has shielded them both.

Louis hauls them against the strength of the current toward the edge of the tank. As they near, Niall reaches in and pulls Harry to safety, and then Zayn. Louis climbs out last.

The roar of water fades as the gates finally close again.

Louis glances at Harry’s body on the ground, which seems to be breathing. His eyes are squinting painfully shut, mouth set in a firm grimace, suit torn apart, with fresh blood oozing out of his wound. His teeth chatter, and he seems enclosed within a private, harrowing world.

Zayn’s face, on the other hand, is pale, his black hair dripping red water, his lips lightly purple. His hands are still cuffed behind him, but the ropes on his feet have been torn away. Only frayed strands hang on to his ankles. There is no motion in his chest.

Louis listens for a heartbeat, and hearing none, starts cardiopulmonary resuscitation. He can sense the Cupid and Psyche’s movement in the distance, but he’s beyond caring. He concentrates on saving his friend.

He gives two large breaths to Zayn, and then starts chest compressions, in cycles of fifteen. It’s difficult when Zayn’s not completely flat, with his hands cuffed behind him.

Niall watches him for a bit, then nudges Louis and says, “Move over.”

He does the compressions while Louis gives the breaths. In the middle of their third cycle, a sputter of water spurts from Zayn’s mouth and he coughs weakly. Louis touches Niall’s arm for him to stop.

The wail of police sirens sound from the distance, coming closer. Niall glances up at Louis in alarm.

Looking up, Louis notices that Psyche and Cupid are not to be found. They have scrambled away. There's nowhere for Louis and Niall to hide with Harry and Zayn, not with them injured like this. They’re too big to conceal.

Louis runs over to Harry. He tries to pick up the wet leather at his shoulders and drag him away, but Harry’s body is too heavy. A ring of red surrounds him, his body sticky and dark with fresh blood. 

“Harry, come on. Let’s get going. They can't find you like this. We have to go.”

Harry is a dead weight, breathing shallowly without a word. He does not open his eyes nor make any acknowledgement of Louis. A few tears sting Louis’ eyes, mixing with the water on his face.

“Come on, Harry. Please. _Help me._ I can't lose you now.”

After a forceful tug, Louis staggers and falls down. He tries to get up but slips in the unforgiving mixture of blood and water. He tries again, but cannot get a good grip on Harry. The sirens sound relentlessly closer.

Helplessly, Louis drops to his knees and takes hold of Harry’s hand, running his thumb over Harry’s thin, raised scars. His face is streaked with angry tears. Louis squeezes Harry’s hand, holding it tightly. He knows that there is nothing more to do. The game is at an end.

“I love you,” Louis says softly, the fight in him dying. He raises Harry’s hand to kiss his palm, pressing his lips into Harry’s water-softened scars. He is furious at the unfairness, at how close they were. He feels overwhelmed by the gratitude he has for Harry, and ruptured by the knowledge that Harry will be destroyed by their impending discovery.

Harry cannot survive this. He will not.

“I love you.” He mouths the words against Harry’s reddened palm, his lips cold and wet against Harry’s flesh. His voice cracks with immense sadness. “My darling, I love you beyond reason.”

A tremendous crash tears through the building. The front wall is being smashed by a hulking tank of a vehicle — with simulation police sirens installed. A male human figure opens the driver’s door and runs through the building toward them.

Louis’ face lights up like fireworks when he gets closer. He recognizes his swiftly moving legs, the beautiful running form. The person is out of character, looking completely disheveled and destroyed by worry — but Louis would know that figure anywhere. There must have been ten layers of sweat in his hair, rumpled by anxious fingers tearing through it.

“You're a piss-poor driver, Liam.” Louis admonishes with a closed-lip smile.

“And you're piss-poor at answering your phone, asshole!” Liam retorts.

Liam stares from Zayn palely breathing like death, to the Cat laid out, gruesome and bloody, to Niall’s ashen, startled expression. His forehead furrows with worry when he notices that Zayn still has his hands cuffed, and Louis is dripping bloody red water all over the ground.

Yet his tone is cool and diffident as he asks, “I thought we discussed this, Lou? Risks within reason?”

“You're one to talk.” Louis replies curtly. “The Batmobile’s going back to the shop, isn't it?”

“Come on, stupid,” Liam chides, beaming at Louis with immense fondness.

“Let's go home.”

 

 

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

>  

_You know_  
_You know I love you so_  
_You know I love you so_

 

 

… apples, fanned on her plate, green and golden slices next to her glasses, which she doesn’t wear unless she reads and she doesn’t read, not anymore,

crowded on a nightstand full of not-her things: black mug, crinkled magazine, nibbled cookie, blue-capped pen for doing crosswords — her curvy _R_ like a sideways stickman, the _U_ like a squished vase

… at home the bedside table is tidy. _I don’t like a mess,_ she says, the table empty except for Mr. Tumnus ( _too old to sleep with a stuffed faun, I’m sorry Harry, time to grow up,_ but Mr. Tumnus is worn down like a patch of moss, dusky pink-beige, he fits in my hand  & has been mine since I was a baby. So he stays there on the nightstand, he’s mine, pilling & faded. She says we can’t wash him for he’s falling apart, a smudge on his nose, _there there Mr. Tumnus_ ), now she doesn’t see him so he can stay with me, she can’t take him away.

**Wow. It’s been ages since I thought about him, my faun.**

_I’m tired,_ she says, she won’t read to me, even though I want her to and I can’t by myself, I don’t know how, don’t know all the words

like what is a _Feen_ , & what’s more _Feen_? what does a _Fairsin_ mean… _you’re a Fairsin Order_ , is that good or bad? Does it mean she can come home soon. I wish I could build a time machine to see the future, because everything passes so slow here & no one talks to me. It’s boring.

I can’t ask her, and it’s quiet, dead quiet here, the nurse who looks like a pug (she has a worried face with big, skipping brown eyes like she wants to say something but she doesn’t, so I don’t either) says not to bother her, maybe we’re not supposed to make noise, Our friend Charlotte told me the Sign in the hallway says QUI_T OUR PATIENTS ARE RESTING with the E missing from QUIET, but it’s funny? like they’re saying we know you’re loud kid and if you don’t stop your yelling the patients won’t even try anymore, they’ll just _quit_ and _die._

At home when we have Company we’re not allowed to make a noise. There’s no Company here but nurse’s face, her pug-not-making-a-noise face, wears an invisible muzzle, I see the muzzle around her mouth so I don’t make noise either. _Harry don’t fidget, come sit next to me. Come on, love._

I really want her to, read to me I mean, because she hasn’t for a long time and we always used to, every day, now we’re falling behind but I don’t ask.

I wish she could know my mind like before, when she would know I was hungry before I actually got hungry, she would make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and when I sit down with a proper hunger, it’s already there, as if she read my tummy’s schedule, the sandwich with the crusts cut off, with mini rainbow marshmallows in that special pink cup. I squish the soft marshmallows into the bread, between the peanut butter and jelly. She laughs at me when I squeeze the marshmallows out between the missing gaps in my teeth, it’s gross, I love making her laugh — her voice sounds like a gurgling water fountain, spoons clattering in the drawer, music.

But she’s tired, so she can’t, so I don’t.

I tuck my book back in the bag. I don’t snuggle next to her, it’s not the same. We’re touching but it’s not the same.

Her skin feels like paper, it doesn’t cuddle me, the tubes are in the way. _Can’t bump them, Harry, they take forever to tape up,_ & she makes a face like you do just before you cry but then she looks at me and smiles, and I smile back but not in a happy way.

At night she stays here without me, she says she’s lovely by herself, but in the dark she’s surrounded by funny bleeps and bloops, they scare me, the red & yellow lights at night and people creeping up and down hallways. I don’t like it, I want to run away, but then I worry she’s alone with the bleeping machines, the flashing lights, they sound like they’re closer, then farther away, I don’t like them. I want to run away but she’s — lovely — no not really, she’s — lonely, she means — Lonely. She stares out the window at the moon,

the same moon I —. A skinny yellow line grows & one night, all at once, I see a big, round thing, full & steady, bright as a ghost over the treetops, and we’re watching the same glowing circle, she & I, separately, on opposite sides of life’s steep slopes…

I steal I steal I steal away, she can’t come, I steal away Home. A thief, I’m stealing time, I’m running with thieves, Time is mine. I want to give it to her. Wish that I — we — could have had more — wish I could have given her more. More.

Without her, our bed smells funny with her friend Charlotte in it — not her fine green apple smell, her springtime, sweet smell like lollies, maybe raspberry jam, & toast.

Charlotte smells like mushrooms, she’s nice, but she’s not green apples or jam or even school tea. Charlotte is nice and spongy but she’s not her, and Jezebel doesn’t even like her, but Jezzie doesn’t like anyone but me & her.

We put water in her bowl, but Jezzie waits until Charlotte goes far away. Then she sneaks in to lap the water with her sandy curled tongue, her pink spoon of a tongue that slurps up tiny waterfalls, she lets me pet her while she drinks, her head nuzzling my hand like she misses her too. Jezzie Knows and besides, Charlotte’s eyes are too leaky, they get me wet.

Jezebel never gets wet, she’s neat and tidy. She plants herself on top of me after I’m asleep like the Cap of a mountain, I wake up with a warm weight on my leg, it’s a Cap Cat, haha it’s our own

**Jezebel. Jesus, it’s been ages. She was a tabby like those cats in Japanese calligraphy, sleek and fat curled sleeping in the sun, their fur like a long-haired rabbit’s, brushed out,**

**like that tabby skirting the darkness of the Gotham alley, the night I met the Cupid. Scrawny, not pretty like Jez, a cat with a tough resumé. Scars under the palomino fur, wary eyes, shoulders hunched like knife blades.**

**Why a Cat, Harry?**

**Because. Cats can see the dead.**

After the funeral, people come to box up all our stuff — my stuff — I throw my treasures into the the plaid flannel pillowcase, the plastic zoo animals, the books we used to read at bedtime, my red cup for brushing my teeth, a picture of her in a wooden frame, & Mr. Tumnus stuffed at the top the very last thing. For a long time after, whenever I’d brush my teeth, I’d see our old sink, the white faucet, the clamshell basin, her pale green hairbrush next to it with a whiff of her perfume. Dragging the pillowcase down the hallway I think, I should bring Jezzie’s toy mouse, otherwise what would she play with? That’s when I find out Jezzie won’t come with me, she’s going to a shelter, Some Nice Family will adopt her, Charlotte says, don’t worry. The warm weight on our blanket will be someone else’s Mountain Cap, she’ll warm some other kid’s leg when he wakes in the morning, and play with a new mouse, the future is just a nice adoption away. It’ll be an adventure. 

I don’t want an adventure. I want to stay. With her. She held me singing. Her arms were warm around me, _Come_ _give_ _me_ _a_ _hug_ , _love_ , she said, I ran, my body tipped into her embrace, her laugh was a wind chime in the sun, my insides were folded like pieces of porcelain and she assembled me, glued me together, I became whole, I was home.

**I miss her.**

The light on the beach leaks in, blue and luminous, the window open to the summer darkness, so it seems as if the glow itself is lifting the curtains. The Cupid is sleeping, noiselessly like a vigilant ghost. A sliver of moon slices through the sky.

The dampness in my hair has worked into the pillow. My neck feels wet, arms are curled in front of my chest. Couldn’t eat earlier, now stomach’s gurgling and complaining, and I’m thinking about him.

Where is he? What’s he doing?

I sneak in behind the bushes by the south gardens, the window that never locks gliding silently open, in I go like a wasp, I drop quietly to the floor. (The Tomlinsons really need a better security system.) Up the stairs to his bedroom at the far end, toward his oaken door, turn his brass doorknob.

It’s our last night, but he doesn’t know that. I rustle him. Harry! What are you doing here? It’s nearly, God what time is it — shit, it’s one-thirty in the morning. Get over here, hurry up, get in bed. I don’t care if you’re cold. Come _on_ doofus.

In his bed warmly naked. His boyish curves, the skin half rough with adulthood, coarse copper-tinged hair mingling with fine down from his belly to his thighs, softer on the inside. Rubs his eyes, hand brushing his cheek, sleepy. Tummy round and hard, a couple of apples, I want to lie down, want to take a bite.

Harry, you’re shivering, why? It’s so late. ‘Course it’s okay, silly, come here. His ankle twists around mine and pulls my shin in. Throws a blanket around us. His hand snakes up my spine. I can feel the five points of his fingers on my back, calming me, keeping me from falling. Warm points, like Christmas lights.

He holds me and I don’t stop shivering, his body releases everything in me, I’m hot and cold, shameful and angry and sad. I’m always. Running away, turning my cheek, biting back words, always fighting. The old man was the last straw, but it was wrong — I know, don’t care anymore. Not anymore.

It’s okay, Harry, baby. S’okay. I can tell he wants it too, he bites his bottom lip, we’re both a little jumpy, he looks away, but then something changes and he presses in, like he’s made up his mind, he’s closing in, he wants it, he’s eager like me. His palm flat on my back, rubbing and soothing. His mouth is tender on me, feels good, I want it all over, not just for soothing. Harry, don’t cry. I’m here. Darling, look at me. I can't, I can’t stop, because of my dark secret, it will stay secret forever, he’ll never know. He’s my star, my songbird. I want him. Want something to remember him by, want everything with him. Want to take a piece of him with me, want to say sorry, Louis, stay good forever, my North Star, my one. I’m sorry. My nightingale, my sparrow, stay good, for me.

His bony hip bumps into mine, did he do that? and suddenly he’s in my hand, a soft gasp, his hip thrusts a little into me, he thickens in my hand his silky casing tensing and thickening, warm and dry like satin, my satin boy, golden and lovely we start, mouths finding skin to kiss, fingers touching places that flare to life.

He’s whispering yes, his throat warbling a high melody, and he’s tensing to my hand going too fast, I’m rushing I can’t pace it, I want to watch him go. He puts his hand on top of mine and slows it down, pulling the reins back gently so we’re both stroking, him on top of me. And he starts to moan into my ear, just for me, Harry oh, why did we wait so long, it’s so — fucking — nice, oh, yeah, like that. And I tell him, fuck, Louis, I want to do things, I want you so bad, please show me. His eyes are half-closed and he looks like he’s almost there, I kiss him I can’t help it, his beauty stings me, it makes me crazy. I want. I want. I’m leaking, so fucking hard. Because I’m never coming back, I want to drink him down, or at least know his taste. To have his mess on me, once. I scoot down and put my face close, and he strokes my cheek and holds it still. Baby, are you sure? We’ve never. You don’t have to.

I suck him in. His velvet tip brushes against my tongue and actually jerks, it has a life. I take him in an inch at a time, wrapping my lips around him, trying not to bite. I let him slide out with a little teeth, he quivers and grunts, and then pushes back in, he likes it, likes my mouth, wants to play. And my mouth likes him. He wraps his hand around the base and I lift it away, replacing my own hand there. It’s mine. I want to do it, all me. I can tell he can’t hold it much longer, he’s breathing faster & faster, and his groans climb higher, little whines of pleasure and pleading. He’s hitting the back of my throat it’s salty and a little soapy & sweet, is it? Is that his come? He exhales with a moan and then it shoots down my throat, the real thing, there’s no mistake it smells like mine, it’s thick, I pull back surprised, it hits my lips and nose, that’s it, he’s undone, I’ve made him come, he’s writhing through the pulsating pleasure of it with his legs stiff around me. He’s beautiful. I lick the excess off him, and he twitches, drawing back from it, a hand on my chin to halt it.

Harry it’s. God, Harry, it’s so much. Thank you, I’m sorry, love, I got you. T’so messy. Why, Lou? Don’t be, it was sexy, I want more, I want you on me, I want to feel every atom of you, want to absorb you. Harry, you’re all, you’re sticky, do you want to clean up? Yeah, I guess. He looks at me, his fingers skimming the wetness around my mouth and, smiles, hang on, I’ll be right back.

He gets a damp towel from the bathroom and starts to clean, we’re giggling, he wipes my face like a kitten licking itself, one damp swipe at a time. Clean as a whistle. His wicked eyes tease me. Come closer, baby. Mouth on mine, a warm and gentle flicker, tongue on mine, inside, tasting me, tasting… it turns me on thinking about him tasting himself and I push myself into him, wanting release. Lightheaded and wild.

He turns me then so I’m on my back, kisses me softly on my shoulders, a hand on my tummy to steady me, and I wait shuddering for him. His hand rubs in a circular motion below my belly button and then gradually, like a drifting cloud, migrates down my trail, following the ancient roadmap of sex. My dick brushes the back of his hand and is aflame. His mouth is on me, I close my eyes, trying to memorize the feeling of his tongue, his warm breath, trying to remember for a lifetime, the last of him, his hunting eyes, the phantom touch of his eyelashes on my shoulderblades. 

I turn away and try to forget, it’s too hard. He knows, he knows of course he knows, he knows everything about me, he loved me before I ever told him, he loves he loves me. I belong. With him. To him.

He takes my hand and brings it to his mouth, and kisses the raised scars in my palm. Fucking hard scars, I will fucking _destroy_ him one day, that child abuser, I’m counting on it, his raised cane, I’ll wipe that satisfied smirk off his, I will fucking — and Louis was there, he heard he saw he was, he heard me, he saw me come out the door his ashen face and helpless hands, his arms he reached out for me I saw him but I couldn’t touch him, it hurt like my soul flowing away, he’s the only boy, the only one who knows.

Baby, he turns my face, baby he says quietly, fiercely, like he wants to kill him too, I’ll never let anyone touch you again, you and me, it’s you and me from here on. No, Harry, don’t. Don’t be sad. We’re a team. Together. Aren’t we?

His hand is gentle, and just right, I think about what I want him to do to me, and he pushes against my thigh he knows. He’s right there with me, kissing me I turn my head and he licks my lips, tongue pushes in and stretches my mouth wide and then deep, my lips are tasting him, his stubble scratches my chin I want him to scratch my thighs, want to take his burn with me, want to remember him.

Babe. He’s kissing my chest as light as insect wings. I’m soaring, like swallows like a butterfly, I’m going to ink him there. He’s down on me and it feels… like nothing I can describe, wet warm comfortable. Then he swallows me down completely, gags and pulls off it’s too quick. Louis you, alright? Yeah, Harry, gimme a sec, you’re, wow, coughs, goes right back, warm lovely, wet, my hips move on their own, in and out, and his mouth helps me, muscular tongue stroking me and pulling me like a rope my legs tighten it’s fucking good, feels so good, so good, I climb, I climb and go faster, in and out, and his hand, wraps me at that moment just before and I can’t I can’t hold it back, I feel a burble at the base of the spine and it blasts its way through molten lava so hot so fast, every muscle so tight and there it is, there it is, there it is, he keeps licking and stroking it, I’m burning I keep going, colors all around aquamarine, I’m flying, I’ve never had it like this, it doesn’t stop and keeps climbing and Louis, Louis, Louis, I want to stay, I want to stay, I want to stay with you.

 

Motherfucker. What happened. Stop. Touching.

Fucker, where am I.

Who? Is that. On me. Where am I.

It hurts. All over, but mostly, here. In front. Hip to chest, someone’s filleted me.

_Shhh. Darling, don’t move._

Louis? Where are we. Are we dead?

_No, baby. Not dead. Alive. We’re alive, together._

We. We did it. We did —

_Yes, love. Go to sleep._

You’ll stay?

_Yes, Harry. Always._

I love you.

Don’t think he heard that last part… because don’t think I actually said it… was like mrghrjnyu… garbled. Tired. Hurts. What ...

 

 

•••

 

 

… the fuuuuuuuuuuuuccckkk!

What the fuck, what the fuck!

The wind flattens my face and my hair whips into my eyes. I'm sure my knuckles are white from gripping, the fingers have no blood flow. Even though my legs are dangling, I don’t feel anything below the waist like that part’s been cut away. Every couple of seconds another sharp turn makes my feet swing away, as if they belong to a meat puppet. My heartbeat’s in my throat.

It’s so fast but it’s out of my control and I have nothing to hold on to, only this rubber harness around my shoulder and belly and it’s freaking … well, it’s amazing!

I’ve never dropped so fast, not without a wire that the Cat could control, hooked to the harness on the Cat’s belt. This is different, out of my control. It’s terrifying and glorious. It’s, it’s — it’s so, so good.

I hate roller coasters! I yell.

We’re on the Batman roller coaster at Six Flags Magic Mountain, the Batman coaster. It’s so funny that I burst out laughing when I see it. I can’t even believe the thing exists — I thought Louis was pulling my leg. But no, it really does, with the Bat Signal painted on the fence and everything. I look around and people are snacking on cotton candy soft pretzels ice cream and those huge tankards of amusement park soda, oblivious on a summer day as if it was all fun and games. They can believe no one ever got hurt and what happened was all an urban legend. It’s so pure. I kinda love it.

Louis loves it too, I can tell. His face is so happy. While we’re waiting in line, he looks over once in awhile and we kind of lose it, especially when we see a kid in a Batman costume, tiny pointy ears in the air, frozen lemonade around his mouth.

I feel him smile big next to me, we’re going fifty at least and then we’re upside down for a few seconds and the whole sky flips, my toes are antigravity my kidneys are flowing backwards, and I hear him screaming in a happy, relaxed way, a sound I never got to hear from anyone before, because they were always screaming from fear or agony. It’s weird in a good way, to hear someone scream from joy like this, I’m not sure how to react, it feels loose and light and maybe, a little wonderful. The Cupid would say it’s a reflex, feel it and use it — but I don’t have to now, it’s behind me isn’t it? The watching and waiting, the way I used to edit out hesitation pity pride and concentrate on speed force fear pressure and objective, the body being used to inflict pain on others, the most efficient machine. The Cupid… not for a long time now, she’s in my rearview. I —.

Now I’m screaming because it feels good, there’s nothing after, I fall and fall but land upright when the roller coaster suddenly brakes, rumbling with a loud screech on the flat tracks. It clacks back to the gate, he reaches over to touch my hand, we turn grinning toward each other, our faces wind-scrubbed our hands fit like two pieces of a puzzle. We lift up our harnesses to unload then there’s another clot of people getting on, they’re so excited they have no idea what we’ve just been through, how could they? they’re all c’mon buckle in and let’s GO ALREADY go go go! and what a way for an adventure to end, I think, what a lovely, happy way.

Where are you taking us, Lou?

He stares straight ahead with a crooked smile, one hand on the steering wheel and an elbow on the edge of the opened window. Perfect California afternoon, on the hot side, sun tanning our exposed skin. I can see a fleck of blue behind his aviators.

We pull off the crowded highway and drive for a bit, past a Los Angeles mix of flat broad houses and small businesses restaurants liquor stores, and pull into the parking lot of a donut shop.

It’s not hard to guess what the place sells. A huge statue of a donut sits on the rooftop. It says, “Randy’s Donuts.”

Why are we here?

_Have you never had a Randy’s donut?_

I’ve had donuts, yeah, ‘course.

_No, H, a Randy’s donut._

We’re walking toward the shop and the sun’s beating down, he’s looking good, face cut like a marble god a golden tan his short red-tinged whiskers I can almost feel them on me. He sees me looking at him and fidgets, embarrassed, but damn he was Gotham’s most eligible for years, doesn’t he know how handsome he is? I want him to touch me, but I don’t ever not want that, I want him on me all the time.

Why donuts though? We’ve already had loads of sugar today and my brain’s doing flips it’s practically a honeycomb, so why are we here?

_Because it’s iconic. You never got to do this, Haz._

Do what.

_Childhood._

I stop in my tracks. A small bouquet fucking opens in me. Now I see: amusement park, donuts. He’s trying to — he’s restoring a part of life. For both of us. Something I never had, and never expected again when I left foster care at sixteen. I want to pummel him to the ground it feels so good. The old muscles twitch for action, violence works in every situation, doesn’t it? frustration anticipation celebration, you name it. But I suppose that’s not a normal reaction, it’s our training. You can take a boy out of Gotham, and so on — a hard habit to break. For both of us.

So you’re saying all kids should get high on fat and sugar, Lou?

_Give it a rest, will ya. You ready? Let’s see if there’s a whole grain gluten-free avocado doughnut for you, you freak._

You’re the freak.

I slap his ass. Never miss a good opportunity again.

We get in line behind some ladies, one of whom has a Randy’s Donuts sweatshirt on, it looks comfy. Louis sees me staring at it.

Whispers, _Want one?_

I shake my head and make a joking frown face, don’t be ridiculous. Shush.

_I bet it’s comfy, Haz, 100% Egyptian combed cotton. Iconic Randy’s design on the back. We can get them matching. Hey look, they’re selling them up front._

Shh, stop it. Slaps him away.

The lady turns around. _Are you talking about this sweatshirt? It is really comfortable._ Kind eyes. _I’ve had this one for ten years. Been coming here for the classic glazed since my kids were babies. Good quality, too. It’s lasted forever._

There, he’s done it. Always embarrassing me wherever we go, he’s a menace. It’s like we’re fucking married, sometimes I want to kill him, in a nonviolent way.

I’m sorry. My boyfriend’s an idiot.

He gives me a look, blinks his eyes slowly and says, _I’m the fiancé, actually. He’s the beauty, and I’m the brains._ Emphasizes the word _fiancé_ , being dramatic. _Nice to meet you. I’m Louis, this is Haz._

Harry.

 _Oh, you’re engaged? Congratulations, that’s wonderful!_ She glances from Louis to me, sizing us up. _I’m Gina. You guys are adorable together, you know?_

I mumble something incoherent. Louis says, _Why, thank you. We’re very much in love._

He would say that, looking rather smug. I reach over and aggressively hold his hand, lean into him like Kate does to Leo in _The Titanic._

Would you really buy a sweatshirt for me, hun? Golly, you’re the best boyfriend in the world. There’s no one I’d rather go down on a sinking ship with. Draw me like one of your —

He covers my mouth with one hand. I pick it off, giving him a smooch on the cheek and feeling his face flush from inside out, going a deep shade of sunburn. Gina startles for a second, then starts laughing, smart lady, she knows I’m busting his balls. Louis doesn’t say another word. He squeezes my hand hard, _H I’ll get you for this later._

I know, Louis. I can hardly wait.

They take her order and then we move up. Louis gets a plain buttermilk donut, I get an orange iced, and we buy a sweatshirt, in extra-large so we can share. Louis tries it on for size, the sleeves covering most of his hands. Sweater paws. Okay, he was right. I like it a lot. I’m cackling, and he’s pretending to be a model, striking stark sexy poses. I shake my head, he’s incorrigible.

Just when I think we’re going back, he takes the highway south, heading toward the ocean. I glance at him sharply, alarmed by the detour. What’s he doing? The sun’s slanting through the windshield, and a breeze is picking up off the coast, flapping the awnings on sidewalks. We don’t go to the beach, he knows it’s a no.

Louis.

Lou.

Louis, where are we going?

He doesn’t say anything. Switches hands on the steering wheel, and slides his right one over. Just clasps our hands together, calm and too quiet, _Childhood,_ he had said.

What is he up to? We’re driving down the crowded boulevard parallel to the beachfront. I stare straight ahead at the beach traffic, at the people driving in pastel T-shirts and floppy hats, their cars filled with macaroni salads sunscreen beers towels. We didn’t bring anything for swimming because I don’t own anything for swimming, why would I. _No point._

A feeling like a hive of bees hums in the pit of my stomach.

We pull into a parking space, he cuts the engine. It’s one of those pretty Los Angeles summer afternoons when the smog lifts, and the skies are cornflower blue and poppy pink.

Rare.

We’re not in a parking lot for the swimming beach, though. It’s the one for the tide pools. Families and kids are coming back to their cars, damp suits bedraggled beach hair, hands full of sea treasure, giggly tired voices. It’s like watching a movie about happy families.

_Tell me why, Haz._

Why what.

_The water. What happened. Why you’re so scared of it._

The silence engulfs the car and I need to fill it in, it’s too big too much too filled with dark panic.

I’m not — scared.

I pull my hand away and look outside. The ocean is a block off, I can’t see it from here but I can hear the staticky rhythm of the tides, punctuated by screeching seagulls. My pulse is a solid object, and my hands are a mess: the left pinky’s threatening to run away, and the other fingers are shaking as if from too much caffeine.

_No?_

I mean. It’s not something I can control, Louis. I can’t turn it on or shut it off.

_No, you can’t._

He waits for me, respectful and kind. It still feels like I’m fighting it, the wall’s coming up. It’s all I can do not to open the car door and start walking away. Like I said, old habits. Old, howling habits.

I swallow hard and take a breath, waiting for words to find me.

He tried — to — drown me. My last foster dad.

So it’s out. I sneak a look. It sounds unreal, melodramatic, like something a kid would say to impress someone. Louis doesn’t budge, his eyes stay on me and he’s patient, his face says _go on._

He was a drunk. He tried to push me, reign me in. He used to — he sat me in a tub and — he would hose me until I couldn’t catch my breath.

 _Fuck._ Louis sucks in his breath, angry. _He waterboarded you. Wasn’t there anyone who saw? Didn’t anyone report him?_

I laugh bitterly.

Like who? His wife who held me down? My foster brother Jarrod, who was glad it wasn’t him? He’d rather fuck off stealing beer and cigarettes. I was nothing to them.

 _Oh, Harry._ He lets it sink in. _Oh God, Harry._

Don’t worry about it, Lou. It’s in the past. I took care of it.

I stare out the window. A kid has stepped on a rock and is bawling his eyes out, and his mom’s bent over looking at his upturned foot. He sounds okay, just crying for attention. His hair is shiny black glossy as glass, his face scrunched and red.

_Harry._

His hand almost touches mine but not quite, he’s hesitant, as if touching would break me into a thousand shards.

You haven’t even heard the worst part, Lou.

_No?_

I turn my head.

You sure you wanna hear it?

He nods, his eyes somber.

Will he believe me? Batman would, but would Louis Tomlinson? I take in a huge breath, crossing the bridge to nowhere.

I tried to kill him. With windshield fluid. It was my first time.

His eyes widen, but there’s no revulsion. He hasn’t shoved me away. He’s present, alert, calm, everything I’d hoped for.

Wanna know how I did it? I mixed it with alcohol and left it for him as a present. Undetectable. The great thing was, he almost died. That’s the bad thing too, that he almost died. I was too good at it. Could’ve made it into a career.

I chuckle to myself, my head down. It’s the most I’ve told anyone, and I’m a little dead. The Cat in me struggles to rise, wants action danger and adrenaline. This is my cue to disappear or fight, my hand itches for a whip. So badly.

Yet at the same time, a veil is gone, the thing nipping at my heels has vanished. My insides feel like helium. If I say another word, it’ll come out like a squeak. Maybe this is how the afterlife feels.

Louis’ quiet for a moment, absorbing it. I know it’s horrifying, I should have known, well it’s too late. It’s not normal. It’s not even, like, human. How could anyone forgive? Dumb. I should’ve known, I jumped across and there was no one to catch me.

After a moment, Louis just touches my hand.

_Haz, you ready?_

Hmm?

_Wanna see something cool?_

Louis.

_You don’t have to. Only if you want._

I pretend to be mad.

I was pouring my heart out, asshole. What d’you think? Did you even hear — hey —

He unlocks the car doors and opens his side. Gets out, closes it, and starts walking. I have no idea what he’s even — oh. He’s coming around.

He opens my door, stands there waiting.

_Come on. It’s really cool. Just wanna show you._

Inside me, the bees are like, don’t go, are you gonna just leave us here or what. We can’t swarm all by ourselves, you selfish fucker. Well too bad, assholes, not today.

We’re walking toward the ocean. I’m trying to tell my heart, fucker, stay down, focus on the objective. It’s Louis. You can always leave, he knows. If you can’t do it, just go. You can run. You always run.

Maybe run _now_?

No. Stay.

He said it was cool, it’s Louis, it’s cool, remember? Trust him.

At the edge of the beach, the sand is damp and cold. Louis walks over to a tide pool beyond some rocks. There are peculiar, craggy boulders all over. The tide is receding, and the pools are all colors, jade olive drab sandy teal beige peach, waves can’t touch us. He starts looking, darts from one pool to another while I stand in one place, watching him.

A moment later, I walk to the pool closest to the beach and look in. There’s not much to see, some sad kelp, algae clinging to shale, coarse grains of glassy sand. The water’s clear with tiny, foamy bubbles at the edges.

_Haz, over here!_

I look up. I can see him only from the chest up. He’s behind a clump of big rocks, his hair blowing across his forehead, one hand fixing his fringe.

I’m — I don’t... I’m okay right here, Louis!

_Suit yourself. It’s really cool though._

Just tell me! Tell me. 

The thing is, I really _do_ want to see. I hate that there’s a part of him forbidden to me because of the ferocious beast inside, the one waiting to devour me.

Stay down, my heart. I pick my way through the waste land and concentrate on going from rock to rock. My shadow rises to meet me. I try to ignore the water, it’s receding anyway, the pools contain multitudes of rainbows, they’re breathtaking. I come ever closer to him. He’s sitting on a flat boulder, and my ass fairly falls onto it.

What’s so great then?

He points in the water. Seashells glide sideways across the shallow ocean floor, powered by tiny crab legs. Their joints look medieval.

Hermit crabs.

_Yeah. Wanderers._

Cute.

_Mmmhmm._

We watch them, their bustling transport creating tiny ripples. From time to time, they almost collide into each other, resulting in a delicate, scrabbly underwater dance, their shells like tall hats bumping on the dance floor.

Louis scoots close to me, leans on me and lays his head against my shoulder. For a minute, it feels like he’s the one who needs comforting.

They’re carrying their homes, Louis. They’re always home.

_Harry._

He puts his hand on mine, his thumb mindlessly rubbing my skin. It feels good, like sunshine.

_Harry, you were sixteen._

Yeah. So?

_You were only sixteen. You were hurt. Yet you gave me so much love. Enough for a lifetime._

I thought he was going to say. I honestly, I didn’t expect… Everything I told him, the water the fear the yawning gap that can’t be crossed, the fear that nothing, nothing will ever make it right, it will always rise and rise and I will never swim across. Fuck, I hate it I’m crying, I hate it.

He’s leaning across. _Love, no._ His lips find my cheeks and meets me, he catches me falling, he meets me with his own scars the ones I put there, his cheek his neck. I saved him, I saw him I wanted, I wanted him, so much my Louis, my songbird, my light.

Love, he says, it was never. For me there was never a doubt. You were never Red, or even Yellow.

_Not Yellow._

Harry, you were my Only. You were the One.

For me.

You were always Green.

Green.

 

 

 

 

The End

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

Playlist for [**_Yellow_**](https://open.spotify.com/user/salad_in_the_wind/playlist/6qfaa2qHnJGRFigw8sDfG0?si=PrM4xF6dQoCdh6G_74c_LQ):

 

After You Fall.  Janet Jackson (Unbreakable)

Ain’t Too Proud to Beg.  The Temptations (Gettin’ Ready)

Alive.  Pearl Jam (Ten)

All Night Thing.  Temple of the Dog (Temple of the Dog)

Another One Bites the Dust.  Queen (The Game)

Back of Beyond.  Band of Skulls (By Default)

The Baddest Man Alive.  The Black Keys (The Man with Iron Fists)

Be Careful What You Wish For.  Noel Gallagher and the High Flying Birds (Who Built the Moon)

Being With You.  Smokey Robinson (Being With You)

Bodysnatchers.  Radiohead (In Rainbows)

Bros.  Wolf Alice (My Love Is Cool)

Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.  Lauryn Hill (The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill)

Close to You.  Rihanna (ANTI)

Cranes in the Sky.  Solane (A Seat at the Table)

Dark Side of the Gym. The National (Sleep Well Beast)

Death and All His Friends.  Coldplay (Viva La Vida)

Death by Diamonds and Pearls.  Band of Skulls (Baby Darling Doll Face Honey)

Delicious Demon.  The Sugarcubes (Life’s Too Good)

Desensitized.  Green Day (Shenanigans)

Dessert.  Dawin (Dessert)

Difficult Child.  Keane (The Best of Keane, Deluxe)

Dream Baby Dream.  Suicide (The Second Album)

Elastic Heart.  Sia (1000 Forms of Fear)

Electric Feel.  MGMT (Oracular Spectacular)

Frail and Bedazzled.  The Smashing Pumpkins (Pisces Iscariot)

Friends, Lovers, or Nothing.  John Mayer (Battle Studies)

Ghost Rider.  Suicide (Suicide)

Give It Away.  Red Hot Chili Peppers (Blood Sugar Sex Magik)

Goodbye Goodnight. Andra Day (Cheers to the Fall)

Happier.  Ed Sheeran (Divide)

Happiness Is a Warm Gun.  The Beatles (The Beatles)

He Used to Be a Lovely Boy.  Keane (The Best of Keane)

Heart-Shaped Box.  Nirvana (In Utero)

Hero.  Family of the Year

Hitchin’ a Ride.  Green Day (Greatest Hits: God’s Favorite Band)

Home Sweet Home.  Motley Crue (Theatre of Pain)

Honey.  The London Souls (Here Come the Girls)

Horchata.  Vampire Weekend (Contra)

Hot Thoughts.  Spoon (Hot Thoughts)

How Deep Is Your Love.  Bee Gees (Greatest)

I’m Shakin’.  Jack White (Blunderbuss)

Just a Little Bit of Your Heart.  Ariana Grande (My Everything)

Kiss.  Prince (Parade)

Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.  Guns ‘N Roses (Use Your Illusions II)

Love Is Blindness.  Jack White (Sixteen Saltines)

LOVE.  Kendrick Lamar ft Zacari (DAMN.)

Lust.  THe Raveonettes (Lust Lust Lust)

Meet Me in the Hallway.  Harry Styles (Harry Styles)

Medicine.  The 1975 (Medicine)

Miss You.  SWV (Still)

Moondance.  Jonathan Rhys Meyers (August Rush Soundtrack)

Naked Kids.  Grouplove (Never Trust a Happy Ending)

Nice Guys Finish Last.  Green Day (Nimrod)

No Broken Hearts.  Bebe Rexha ft. Nicki Minaj (No Broken Hearts)

No More Lonely Nights.  Paul McCartney (Wingspan)

Nobody Else Will Be There.  The National (Sleep Well Beast)

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby.  Cigarettes After Sex (I.)

N.Y.  Doves (The Last Broadcast)

On and On and On.  Jack White (Blunderbuss)

Once More to See You.  Mitski (Puberty 2)

Only in Sleep. Eriks Esenvalds, One Voice Choir (Rite of Passage)

Out of the Blue.  George Harrison (All Things Must Pass)

Pink + White.  Frank Ocean (Blonde)

Power of Two. Indigo Girls (Swamp Ophelia)

Radioactive.  Imagine Dragons (Night Visions)

Ready to Run.  One Direction (FOUR, Deluxe)

Run Away With Me.  Carly Rae Jepsen (Emotion)

Runaway.  Kaney West, ft. Pusha T (My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy)

See You Soon. Coldplay (The Blue Room)

Shine. LOLO (In Loving Memory of When I Gave a Shit)

Slip Away.  Perfume Genius (Slip Away)

Stay in My Corner.  The Arcs (Yours, Dreamily)

Supercut.  Lorde (Melodrama)

Sweet Creature.  Harry Styles (Harry Styles)

Sweet Old World.  Emmylou Harris (Wrecking Ball)

Take Me With You When You Go.  Jack White (Blunderbuss)

Through the Dark.  One Direction (Midnight Memories, Deluxe)

Thunder.  Imagine Dragons (Evolve)

Time to Pretend.  MGMT (Oracular Spectacular)

True Colors.  Cyndi Lauper (True Colors)

Uh Huh.  Julia Michaels (Nervous System)

Vicious World.  Rufus Wainwright (Want One)

Want You Back.  HAIM (Something to Tell You)

What a Feeling.  One Direction (Made in the AM)

Wild Thoughts.  DJ Khaled, Rihanna, Bryson Tiller (Grateful)

Yellow. Coldplay (Parachutes)

You’re So Dark.  Arctic Monkeys (One for the Road)

 

Listen [HERE.](https://open.spotify.com/user/salad_in_the_wind/playlist/6qfaa2qHnJGRFigw8sDfG0?si=PrM4xF6dQoCdh6G_74c_LQ)

**Author's Note:**

> My angel Gina’s art inspired this work. Visit her [here](https://twopoppies.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [here](https://www.instagram.com/twopoppies_art/) on instagram. Her work easily surpasses mine. Love you the most. 
> 
> I had not only one, but two fantastic betas, Gina and Lisa, both human beings extraordinaire. They rescued this fic from incompetence. I can only give them all my love, my fictional children, my thanks. 
> 
> Stella, you're my OTP and most loyal reader. What would I do without you? Life is not enough for our friendship. 
> 
> All mistakes are my own. All characters are fictional, all events imaginary. Please do not reproduce or translate without permission.
> 
> Drost's hotel, the LAIRE, takes from the acronym Live Action Interactive Role-playing Explorers.  
> The title of this work is inspired by the Coldplay song, Yellow.  
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
